A Case of Identity - The Adventure of the Fake Engagement
by jkay1980
Summary: For John, trouble starts when a fake engagement is needed for a case. Keeping things secret turns out to be rather difficult when your brother in law actually is the Britsh Government. Soon enough whole London celebrates the happy event. To make things worse, Sherlock turns out to be a master of seduction and being 'involved' with Sherlock doesn't feel as bad as it should be...
1. The Agreement

**Title: A Case of Identity**

**Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)**

**Author: jkay1980**

**Pairing: John/Sherlock; John's POV**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: John and Sherlock have succeeded in rebuilding their friendship after Sherlock's fake suicide. While the unusual case of Sherlock's ex-boyfriend stretches Sherlock to the limit, John finds himself being drawn to Sherlock, and inevitably experiencing a [sexual identity-]crisis...**

**Category: Slash/ Romance/ Crime/ Humor**

**Author's note: The plot is set after series 2. The story describes the development of a realistic love story between John Watson und Sherlock Holmes, built on the fundament of the strong friendship between them. I tried to stay in character. ****Please read at least a few chapters before thinking of abandoning the story.** **I hope you will like it and not abandon it at all.** ****The story starts with a fake engagement, but this will not be the main subject. There are two men, bound to each other by deep and loyal friendship, who discover that they do love each other not only in a friendly, brotherly way. But each one of them has to fight his own demons before he can think of taking their relationship to a new level...**Please review.******

******The chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest and JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much.  
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**You can find a Chinese translation on www. mtslash viewthread. php?tid = 69992&extra = &page = 1 (without the spaces)**

**Registration is required to read it there. Thanks to hwenqi for translating it.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot. I don't make money with it. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ad Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss. **

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><p><span>Chapter one<span>

John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper at breakfast.

His eyes, however, were skimming the same article again and again, without really taking in the contents. John's whole attention was drawn to his flat mate and best friend, who could behave extremely eccentric and who, in his opinion, didn't miss a chance to do exactly that. Meanwhile John was convinced that the earth didn't just revolve around the sun, but rather around Sherlock, not to mention about his own life. Every few seconds John looked at him closely over the edge of the newspaper and watched his curious activities that morning. Actually, all of this had already started the day before...

Since the evening before, Sherlock was behaving peculiar, to put it mildly, and by "peculiar" John meant even more odd than usual. When he had left the morning before for work, he had left his friend at the kitchen table, hunched over one of his whimsical, chemical experiments. A quick glance had told him that Sherlock had been working with a brown liquid and something that looked suspiciously like toenails, and John had quickly decided that he didn't want to know any of the details.

When he came back that evening from the surgery, Sherlock had been restless and irritated, and John had decided it might be best for all parties concerned to leave him alone until Sherlock came to his senses again. It was unnecessary to say that John's actions had not completely been free from selfish motivation. Sherlock simply had these kinds of moods from time to time, and John had believed it to be a result of being without a case for more than three days, which precipitated these "withdrawal symptoms". Therefore, John had retreated to the living room to blog about their latest case, making himself comfortable in his armchair, when Sherlock claimed the armchair opposite him.

It wasn't unusual for them to sit together in silence, in fact, they sat together many evenings like that. It would have been perfectly normal had it not been for the fact that Sherlock had stared fixedly at him. Different than his usual staring, which, for some unexplainable reason Sherlock did occasionally. Somehow, he had looked haunted and harrowed, and he didn't avert his gaze from John for at least an hour, as if the answers to his questions could be found in John's features if he just searched hard enough. At some point John had started to feel incredibly uncomfortable and just when he had decided to ask his friend what the hell was wrong with him after all Sherlock had jumped out of his chair and announced that he had a few things to do. By then, it had already been ten o'clock. Before John had been able to utter a single word, Sherlock had dashed out of the door, leaving him behind in a confused state and with a queasy feeling in his stomach. Two hours later, he had come back home, just to continue scrutinizing John's features, but by then, he had looked in a different, curious way at him. Finally it went too far for John's taste, and he had slipped off to his own bedroom.

Now, Sherlock sat opposite John at breakfast, his elbows on the table, his hands put together under his chin, continuing where he stopped the day before, that is to say staring at John. He couldn't fend off the bad feeling that he had become one of Sherlock's experiments, and since he hadn't the faintest idea what kind of experiment, he was on his guard and didn't take his eyes off Sherlock.

Blindly he groped around for his coffee cup on the table with his hand, not averting his own eyes once from his friend. Everyone who'd see the two this way, looking deeply into each other's eyes, would undoubtedly think they were newly enamoured. This thought didn't really help John feeling any better.

As he finally took a sip of his coffee, he saw Sherlock put something on the plate before him.

Apparently Sherlock had finally decided to let the cat out of the bag.

Involuntarily John took a deep breath, relieved. Curiosity won out and John set the paper down.

The sight that awaited him, however, was unexpected.

A small black box was before him, open, inside a silver ring. It was beautiful, John had to admit. Brushed silver with a small purple stone in the middle of the band. Next to the band was another without any stone in it. There must be a second ring, a match to this one, in which the arrangement of the bands was the other way around. The ring was simple, yet refined, and John could easily have chosen it himself, if he would have to choose one.

John cursed himself. _Curiosity killed the cat. _"What is that?" he tried blankly.

Sherlock met his inquiring look with a blank expression. "A ring. Obviously."

His comment earned him a deprecating stare from John, who felt the urge again to punch the detective. "Yes, I can see that. The question is: What is the ring doing on my plate?" he asked testily, withstanding the temptation to indulge the urge.

"Try to make a deduction," Sherlock dared him to apply his methods. He leaned back in his chair, put his fingertips together under his chin and looked at John with an unreadable face.

While John had no idea where this was going, he felt a foreboding feeling starting in his belly that promised nothing good. "Is this another experiment of yours?" he asked incredulously. "Shall I eat the ring so you can measure God knows what?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Sometimes you can be so slow. It's an engagement ring, John."

John looked at him in surprise. The queasy feeling in his belly spread out swiftly now and took possession of his stomach. "Whose?...What?"

"Yours. Obviously. It's on your plate," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John did not see though why that would be obvious. Last time he checked, he was not engaged. Nor had he the desire to be so again, thank you very much. Especially not after the disaster with his former wife, Mary. After Sherlock jumped in his faked suicide, leaving John behind, he was broken. He eventually met Mary and fell in love with her. Or so he thought. He had hoped that the relationship would make his life at least a bit more liveable, if not necessarily full-value. In another life it might have worked. Perhaps if he would never have met Sherlock, it might have worked out. But he met Sherlock in the first place and when he figured out that Sherlock wasn't dead after all, fate simply took over. John and Sherlock were close as ever and rushing with him from crime scene to crime scene at godforsaken hours didn't improve his marriage. Whenever Sherlock called he would be off the moment he got his message. No matter what. In the grocery store at the chip and pin machine. While having dinner with Mary. While being out with Mary. Once even at a funeral. Mary eventually had enough and gave him an ultimatum. He had to choose between Sherlock and his wife, and well, there was nothing to choose of course. Mary moved out and they got divorced a few months earlier. Sherlock never had a good influence on his relationships.

"FROM ME. FOR YOU." Sherlock became slightly irritated and impatient.

John raised one eyebrow. Thanks to Sherlock's reply, by now, his stomach felt as if in choke hold. He couldn't believe his ears. Whatever was going on definitely fell into the category "a bit not good". "Right, uhm….I still don't get it, sorry. You want to marry me all of a sudden?" he asked confused. With Sherlock, one never knew…

"It's for a CASE, _John_," Sherlock replied, annoyed, and rolled his eyes.

John tried to collect his thoughts. "Sure. Of course. For a case. Obviously. …..Why?"

"Really, John", Sherlock exclaimed harshly. "What's wrong with you this morning? Don't be so slow. Slow is boring," he threatened.

John just shot him a glance. No need to argue with Sherlock. Although , theoretically there were probably one thousand reasons to argue with Sherlock**;** practically, there were none. John would lose. Moreover, he was still too happy that Sherlock was alive. So when Sherlock started to have his moods, John simply reminded himself that he was still his best friend after all. Most of the time this mantra did work. Sometimes though they got in a row. But he was certainly not interested in a row today. He didn't want to be distracted during his work at the surgery, and having a row with Sherlock never did his concentration any good.

John inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair. "Please explain it to me," he asked Sherlock with the calmest voice he was able to produce.

"Because we need a cover. I need a fiancé." He looked quickly at John. "And I promised you to never keep you out again after…well, you know. But you are still a very bad liar and I need you to be a convincing boyfriend. We will start the case in three weeks. So I'm giving you some time to adjust to the idea and have some practice with me. No need to start the case any earlier," Sherlock rattled on.

John didn't hear anything after _Practice_. Somehow that sounded disturbing.

"What do you mean, practice?" John asked alarmed.

"Being a couple. Getting used to it. Being boyfriends. Come on, John. First you have to convince me that you can play your role well. Stick to it, in all circumstances." He paused for a moment, glancing at John uncomfortably. "And besides, you're much more experienced than I am. Actually I might need some guidance in this."

John sighed and watched Sherlock carefully. His nervousness was sort of touching. Nevertheless he asked quietly why it had to be him. Of course he knew why. Sherlock seemed to be able to read his thoughts, again.

"Whom else could I ask? Mycroft? Lestrade? That would be ridiculous. I NEED my blogger."

The thought of Sherlock faking a relationship with one of the other men was too funny. John tried to suppress a smirk. As a result, his objection inevitably lost some of its strength. "Sherlock, you're really asking too much this time."

"Oh please, John. Not that 'people might talk' thing again," Sherlock replied, being on edge.

Maybe he should try logic, John pondered. Considering the fact that the Holmes weren't exactly family men, maybe the underlying significance of family ties were beyond them. Social conventions weren't their pet issue after all.

"You know, it's nearly Christmas," John objected, trying to explain his resistance.

Sherlock made a face. "Yes. Boring."

"And you want me to maintain the role? Being engaged? Even in front of our families and friends?" John asked in disbelief.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked testily.

No, logic definitely wouldn't work.

"Well….Sherlock. Everyone already believes that we are a couple. I am not going to support that idea by telling everyone I am engaged to you. They are not just some people," John replied, trying tenaciously to talk his friend out of his engagement plans. "We can't just lie to them."

"The nature of our relationship is none of their business. You might call this a white lie, if a lie indeed. You could also text them about it and not attend any parties," Sherlock offered.

John only frowned at him. _The nature of their relationship? _He just hoped fervently that Sherlock wouldn't tell him next thing that _the nature of their relationship _was disputable.

"Oh, I see where this is going. I am very sorry for the terrible timing of this killer, John. Maybe we can ask him to wait until after New Year before striking again. Then we don't have to tell them," Sherlock said sarcastically. "You can correct it all afterwards, John, if you want to. Don't be silly."

…_if you want? Why on earth wouldn't he want to? _John's confusion grew exponential the more Sherlock explained and the more John himself objected.

"No one is going to believe that, Sherlock. Do you really not care one bit about that? Lying to them?" he asked. "You know what, don't answer that one," John added quickly. He knew he might not like the answer.

Sherlock sighed and bent forward. "John, please. Forget the rest for a moment. I really need you. I cannot do this on my own." Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

"Doing what?" John asked.

"Helping our client**," **he finally said.

John sighed and buried his face in his hands. He was sure he was not going to like it. Not one bit. But Sherlock saying please was all too rare and pointed **at** the seriousness of the situation. One never let down one's best friend after all…Still, John could not see where this was going. Silently he cursed himself for not being able to tell Sherlock no.

Slowly he took three deep breaths, bending forward and putting his elbows on his knees. "Fine," he said. "But if I have to tell my sister that I am engaged to you and I have to face your brother, we need to discuss terms," he declared with a serious face. He didn't even dare thinking about the Yard…

Sherlock watched him with curiosity. "Tell me."

"First: You will eat at least one proper meal a day. Second: You will try to get some sleep during the case. Third: You will be nice to both our families and friends at this year's Christmas party and you will make some effort to get them proper gifts. Four: You will not give me any pet names. Last but not least, you will rectify this whole situation when the case is solved," John said, determined. "The terms are not up for negotiation."

"That's not negotiating. That's blackmailing," Sherlock protested.

"I had a good teacher," John replied unmoved.

For a little while they were staring at each other silently again.

"Agreed," Sherlock finally answered with a heavy sigh.

"Well I guess at least I know what I'm committing myself to," John replied, shrugging. That was at least something, he comforted himself.

Sherlock stood up and went around the table to John. Hesitatingly he took the box from the table and took out the ring. Thoughtfully he watched it for several seconds before looking at John with that piercing manner which was appropriate to Sherlock.

John returned his look. He thought he saw a hint of embarrassment in the eyes of his usually self-confident friend. Instinctively John held out his hand to him, not averting his gaze from Sherlock.

The detective took his hand in his own and put the ring carefully on John's ring finger. He reached his hand in his pocket and took out a second ring, putting it carefully on his own finger.

The ring resembled his own, as John already had suspected. Since they were not just rings, but beautiful ones, someone had taken some effort to choose them. He wondered whether Sherlock bought them himself or the rings came to him in another way.

"That's settled then," Sherlock finally said, contented. The hint of embarrassment had vanished from his face. Sherlock moved to the living room to search among his papers. One moment later, he was already throwing them around the room, obviously not able to find what he was looking for.

"I'm off to take a shower before work," John said more to himself than to his friend. Realizing that John would not get any further information on the case at the moment, he may as well get ready for work.

"Hmmm." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the papers in front of him.

Just as John tried to make his way to the bathroom, Sherlock summoned him back. "Oh, and John. Don't you dare to take the ring off ever…"

"I'm just off for a shower. Come on, you can't be serious," John exclaimed in disbelief.

"John! Promise!" Sherlock insisted.

"All right, all right. I'm not going to take the bloody ring off until you say so," John replied, lifting his hands over his head defensively. He thought that his friend was still behaving extremely strange and only hoped that at least the staring would cease now they had settled the engagement thing. Why they couldn't just pretend to be engaged as soon as they were undercover instead of sort of really being engaged in front of the whole world, remained a mystery to him to which he wouldn't get an answer any time soon. John couldn't avoid the impression that there was something shady about the whole story…

"Good."

Inwardly he was seething with rage about the taken-for-grantedness, with which people generally expected his obedience and he himself gave in again and again. From time to time it was enough to make you crazy!

"Whatever," John replied nevertheless and with that left for the bathroom, silently fuming.


	2. The problem unravels

**The chapter is betad by JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much. Thanks to all of you for your support.  
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><p><span>Chapter two<span>

John took a long and hot shower, trying to calm down again. Slowly, he realized that he had just accepted an offer of marriage from Sherlock Holmes – eccentric consulting detective, who happened to be his best friend and very male; for a case but he had given him his hand, nevertheless. John took a deep breath. He was so screwed.

When his skin was already reddened by the hot water and his fingers were completely shrivelled, he turned off the water. Not very eco-friendly, he thought, but it had to be done. Now, that the water jet didn't drown other noises anymore, he heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs who clearly had trouble ascending them. Mrs. Hudson, he thought. A minute later he could indeed hear the muffled voice of their landlady.

"The mess you've made again, Sherlock." The footsteps had stopped. Mrs. Hudson must have stopped in the doorway. There was no reply. "Sherlock!"

"What?" came the muffled reply of Sherlock. Apparently he was still busy with his papers.

"Do you have a case? It's a bit messy up here."

At least that was better than when he was bored, John thought smirking. He had always been struck by the curious anomaly in the character of his friend that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical man, and he was even fashion-conscious to a certain degree, he also was one of the most untidy men in his personal habits that he had ever known. Not that John was very conventional in that respect himself. The military work in Afghanistan, combined with a natural Bohemianism of disposition, had made him rather more lax than benefited a medical man. But with him there was a limit, and when he found a man who used to keep his cigarettes in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then he began to think of himself as a man who cultivated virtuous habits. John also was very strongly of the opinion that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Sherlock was bored, and proceeded to adorn the opposite wall with a smiley or a patriotic E. II.R. done in bullet-pocks, he decidedly took the view that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of their living room was improved by it. Mrs. Hudson completely agreed with him in this. Not that it did any good at all…

Their kitchen and, to some extent, Sherlock's bedroom were always full of chemicals and the whole flat was full of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the fridge or in even less desirable places. But in the end, except from the wall-shooting, his papers were John's greatest crux.

They really took on a dramatic scale, slowly taking over every inch of the living room, and it was absolutely prohibited to even touch them. Sherlock himself however did not have the slightest interest in clearing up the mess and therefore they stayed a constant offence to John which led to may arguments until the detective finally - and not more than once a year - gave in, bringing himself to arrange them.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Isn't that wonderful? It seems there are still some criminals out there worth the effort. By the way, have you brought milk? We are out of milk." Based on the voice of his friend, John could easily picture him, emerging out of a pile with documents and smiling broadly.

"Yes, yes. Dear John asked before I left." Mrs. Hudson replied. John heard that she moved again, probably making her way towards the kitchen and trying to avoid the piles of papers.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock, you proposed!" Mrs. Hudson yelled cheerfully, returning to the living room. "At last!"

John's stomach cringed by the joyful exclamation of the landlady. This was going to be terribly awkward. Secretly, he was glad that Sherlock had to deal with her first. Served him right. Despite the embarrassing situation, John couldn't suppress a smirk. He pictured Sherlock, standing somewhat helplessly next to the sofa, and probably wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up. Emotions had never really been his area.

"I knew you would eventually get there," Mrs. Hudson continued. "I always liked John. He is good for you."

Sherlock probably answered with a shy smile, slightly embarrassed by the situation and hoping it would pass as a being-in-love smile, because John didn't hear any reply of his so called fiancé. John let out a sigh. Mrs. Hudson always believed them to be a couple. No need to try to convince her otherwise. John might as well save his breath.

A moment later, John had gathered all his strength and courage and emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, wearing his bathrobe.

The quicker he would get over and done with it, the better.

"Sherlock, have you seen…," John acted as if asking Sherlock something, but he didn't get the chance to finish his sentence.

John never got the chance to finish. Mrs. Hudson saw him and, smiling happily, she closed the gap between them quickly and hugged him.

"Oh, John, dear. I'm so happy for you."

"Oh, God…." John's face lost some color, his eyes darting towards Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson saw the box in the kitchen, John," Sherlock told him apologetically.

"Well,… uhm … thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Ah, we really would have ..uhm…liked to tell you in a different way," John lied, feeling miserably. There was no backing out now.

"I must tell Mrs. Turner right away!" Mrs. Hudson informed them, still smiling, rushing out of the apartment. Apparently she had forgotten her problems with her hips as well as the grocery bags on the kitchen table.

"At least one person is happy with it." Sherlock offered weakly, trying to encourage John.

"Ring. Still there. See," John said, showing his left hand to the detective.

"Good."

"I can't believe the things I do for you. And I know for certain I will regret this. Mrs. Hudson is already over the moon. What will Harry say? Or Mycroft? Oh God….Your brother will probably kill me if I break up with you." John looked sour.

He had not forgotten that Mycroft warned him on their very first encounter to choose a side. And since he chose Sherlock, Mycroft might not appreciate the breaking of the engagement. John always did have the suspicion that Mycroft was in fact very happy about the fact that he got divorced and returned to Baker Street. Not that he thought Mycroft wanted him necessarily to be romantically involved with his brother, just that he wanted him to be around his brother. If possible, 24 hours a day. If being romantically involved with each other was necessary for that, Mycroft probably wouldn't mind.

"Don't be ridiculous. My brother likes you, John," Sherlock dismissed John's objection with a wave and applied his attention to his papers again.

"I don't know if I am particularly happy about that or not. He keeps kidnapping me, you know. And he will like me only as long as I am exactly where he wants me to be," John replied.

"Just accept it for what it is. It is an achievement of a kind to be liked by one Holmes, let alone by both," Sherlock retorted without looking up.

John shook his head in silent disbelief. "Well, I really don't want to be in the line of fire when you two start in on each other."

"Well, who cares what they say, John."

John raised an eyebrow. "Says the man who jumped off a roof in order to protect the people he says he does_not_care about."

"I apologized."

"That's not what I meant." He knew perfectly well that Sherlock knew perfectly well what he meant in the first place. Sherlock just wanted to make his point.

"Does the whole couple thing still bother you?" Sherlock observed John curiously.

"It's different whether strangers believe we are a couple, or our relatives do," John explained, ruffling his hair with one hand.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "None of them will mind. Besides you said yourself they already believe us to be involved."

"Exactly. People just assume things about us….about something they probably don't understand. And if I am honest, I cannot blame them. Because I do not understand it myself, Sherlock."

"What's your problem? We haven't changed, John. The ring does not change anything. It is still you and me…You aren't uncomfortable with us? I mean…in general? We are still friends."

John recognized the tone in Sherlock's voice. The one he didn't like at all. The one that reminded him of the painful days when they resurrected their friendship. The tone of uncertainty had been there since the day he returned. He never really expected John to forgive him for the fall. He had told John that he certainly had hoped they would be able to remain friends but he would have understood if John had refused him. John simply knew that it was on days like this, when he had to ask something difficult or impossible from John that one part of him was actually afraid he had crossed one border that he really shouldn't have. In his view, caring remained certainly not an advantage. After his return, they have had several good and honest conversations on the matter. Sherlock was still convinced it wasn't an advantage but he found that he couldn't turn that on and off. With John came caring and he didn't want to lose this friendship. John didn't make it easy for him, but in the end, Sherlock's honesty resulted in forgiveness.

Those days had been painful, because they had to find one another again when the first time everything just developed on its own. Luckily they found out that the foundation of their friendship was a strong one and in the end John could really forgive Sherlock for his action. Somehow he never had managed to stay angry with him for a very long time. Sherlock was just Sherlock and one could cope with that or not. It was as simple as that. He found that he still could.

"We are fine, Sherlock. But we might be stretching the boundaries a bit. For friends," John told him sighing, showing his ring.

"Well, maybe a bit. But then we were always different," Sherlock added smirking.

Despite himself, John couldn't suppress a grin. "I think so."

"See. It's all fine then." With that Sherlock turned back towards his papers.

"Yeah, it's all_fine_," John admitted sarcastically through gritted teeth and went off to the kitchen. He really did need some tea. A moment he considered adding something stronger to the tea but finally decided against it. Alcohol as soon as day broke really wasn't a shining example of a medical man. But somehow he knew it was not going to be a very calming afternoon at the surgery. There was no way to avoid Sarah and she would want to know about the ring. And he still had no idea what the whole case was about and why he ended up being engaged to his best friend at all.

When he leaned against the worktop in the kitchen, sipping his tea with relish, he couldn't know that the ring he was wearing would open Pandora's box ...


	3. The case of Victor Trevor

**This chapter is edited and betad!  
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**Constructive criticism is highly appreciated. Thank you for reading! Please review!  
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**Chapter three is beta read by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much!**

Chapter three

"You can stop here," Sherlock announced, the cabbie pulling over immediately. Sherlock got out of the taxi, leaving it to John to pay the fare. As usual.

They found themselves in front of an impressive Victorian building in Central London. Sherlock had texted John in the afternoon while he was busy with the hundredth patient this week who had gotten the flu. He already had been in a very bad mood when he received the text. When he arrived at the surgery he had tried to get inside as quickly as possible to avoid Sarah. Unfortunately, Sarah seemed to have been waiting for him to discuss some new working procedures. Of course she did not fail to notice the ring the first thing. Nor did she fail to guess who had given it to John.

When John followed Sherlock, he seemed not to be his usual confident self. Somehow he seemed to be nervous. "Have you taken any nicotine patches?" John asked just for to be sure. Sherlock without nicotine patches wasn't a good thing.

"Three," Sherlock replied curtly.

"A three patch problem? Dear me." That meant something. _But _w_hy was he so nervous then?_ Nicotine always smoothed his anxiety and helped him think.

The answer to the question emerged a few seconds later from the doorway of the building he had been admiring a few minutes ago.

"Ah, Sherlock. I'm glad you were able to come." They were greeted by the tall, dark haired, good looking young man in his thirties. Once he must have been handsome but John couldn't help but think that before him stood a man who had been through some misfortune in the past. The lines in the young man's face had grown hard, and made him look older than he actually was.

"My fiancé and colleague, Dr. Watson," Sherlock presented John.

John forced himself to smile.

"Victor Trevor. I am an old friend of Sherlock's from university," Victor introduced himself, shaking John's hand enthusiastically.

John's curiosity was growing by the minute. He had been under the impression that Sherlock never had friends before and the fact that Sherlock kept smiling in a somehow forced and nervous way told John that there was more to the story than met the eye.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. I've been reading your blog. Very impressive."

"Thank you. Please call me John."

"Call me Victor."

"Good. We're all properly introduced. How wonderful," Sherlock added sarcastically and rolled his eyes. "Maybe we should go inside, now."

"Yes, of course. Please forgive me," Victor apologized and led the way inside. "So this was the thing you needed to do yesterday? Because you said you didn't have much time. I saw that you weren't wearing a ring yesterday," Victor explained.

"I...uhm ...yes," Sherlock managed weakly.

John watched him close. Normally, Sherlock never said 'uhm'. _Are you alright? _he asked silently. Sherlock nodded quickly and unnoticed by Victor.

"Congratulations, then. I'm glad you've found someone," Victor replied smiling.

John thought he heard a hint of relief in his voice.

"Thank you," Sherlock answered.

"Please, come in here. We can talk here without being disturbed." He led them into a cozy living room.

John and Sherlock took seats next to each other in front of the fireplace.

Victor looked at them questioningly. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," John answered in a friendly voice.

"Sherlock?" Victor asked, the curious smile still playing on his lips.

"Yes, coffee, please. Thank you," Sherlock agreed since he promised John not to be too ascetic during the case which earned him an approving glance from John. He smiled. This time genuinely, seemingly able to relax a bit.

When Victor returned with the coffee, he took a seat opposite them.

"Please do repeat what you told me yesterday so John gets the information first hand. I would also like to hear your story again. Do not forget any details. Even the tiniest things might be important," Sherlock addressed Victor. Then, he leaned back, put his fingertips together and assumed his most impassive and judicious expression.

Victor nodded. "OK, of course. My boyfriend, David Jones, is a psychologist. He is a specialist in relationship therapy and owns a clinic near Aldershot. He also has a practice here in London. Usually couples start the therapy here in London and travel to Aldershot for workshops and things like that. Last month he was consulted by a Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Of course, he did not speak to me of it, but I know about it now…considering the circumstances. "

"What circumstances?" John couldn't help but to ask curiously.

Sherlock shot a glance at John. "John, don't interrupt Victor."

"Sorry," John replied.

Victor looked from one to the other with a display of obvious interest, but he remained silent.

"Pray, continue," Sherlock requested.

"After a few meetings the Smiths agreed to go to Aldershot to attend some workshops. They arrived there last Friday. Monday morning they were found murdered in their room. Executed from a short distance actually. Shot with a silencer probably. They've found a letter in David's office, apparently in the handwriting of Mr. Smith. I don't know what it says exactly, but the police said something about missing money. David was arrested on Monday. They suspect blackmail. I don't know about any money but I know for sure he is not capable of murder. I am desperate. I beg you to help him. Like I said yesterday, money is no problem. I will pay you any price," Victor explained, the desperation clearly visible on his face.

"I play the game for the game's own sake and, therefore, I treat all of my clients the same. I have a fixed fee, plus any expenses related to the investigation. John will take care of the financial issues. Who is in charge at the Aldershot Police?"

"DI Davies."

"Davies is an idiot. It's good you came to me immediately," Sherlock explained cheerfully, while taking out his phone.

_Need immediate information on the Aldershot clinic murder. DI Davies in charge. Come in this afternoon. SH_

"The door to the room was shut?" Sherlock asked. He leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. He brightened. His eyes glittered and his pale cheeks took a warmer hue.

Victor shook his head. "No, it was open. It seems that they knew their murderer. They let him in."

"And David never mentioned one of the Smiths to you before?"

"No. David never talks about his clients. He never mentioned them at all."

"What about David's mood? Had he been different lately? Anxious? Scared? Worried?" Sherlock asked, glancing keenly across at Victor.

John could see that a shadow passed over Victor Trevor's face. "No, not at all. He was the same as always. That's why I don't understand. He didn't see this coming."

Sherlock took some notes before inquiring any further. "He did not receive any phone calls or letters he kept to himself?"

"No. Nothing unusual happened," Victor denied.

Sherlock sat silent for some minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. "And things at the clinic were alright? He never mentioned any problems there?"

Victor thought earnestly before he answered. "Not really. He argued repeatedly with Dr. Martin. She is a new counselor at the clinic. But there was nothing specific. They just didn't get on well with each other."

"Good. I think that's all for the moment. I'll be in touch when I have news. Come, John." Sherlock strode out of the room towards the entrance.

"It was nice to meet you, John."

"You, too," John replied before following Sherlock outside.

"Taxi!" Sherlock summoned a taxi effortlessly, as usual.

Inside the cab, John watched Sherlock, trying to read his friends' face.

"We're going to see a relationship therapist then," Sherlock informed John cheerfully.

"You just proposed to me and our relationship already is in grave danger?" John teased him.

"We will have to invent some little problem. I am supposed to be the troublemaker. So you may choose a random problem," Sherlock dismissed the subject with a wave.

"While I am perfectly capable of body parts in the fridge, I tend to believe those might not be good subjects to discuss. Meaning the subjects we should have an argument about are no longer issues for me." Being kidnapped by your fiancé's brother wasn't a good one either, John believed.

"We'll find one. Take your time to think it through...I'm glad Victor showed up. This promises to be a nice little problem. The game is on," Sherlock declared, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.

John could see Sherlock was on fire again.

"Victor seems to be a nice bloke," he started, changing the subject.

"You have questions." It was a statement, not a question. Of course John would have questions.

"It's just that I wasn't aware you had friends before..." _Me_, he added in his thoughts. "You always implied….."

"He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at university. I was never a very sociable fellow. I actually met him by accident. His dog bit my ankle. I was forced to stay indoors for ten days. He came around, inquiring after me. I was always rather fond of moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that I never mixed much with the men of my year. I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at all. Victor was the only man I knew." Sherlock stopped for a moment, searching for words.

"He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. Our _friendship_ lasted a little longer than 6 months. So I don't know if you really can call it a friendship at all," Sherlock added quickly.

Although Sherlock had managed to recount the nature of his relationship with Victor in a purely scientific way, cold and accurate, John's stomach twinged a bit. The nervousness Sherlock betrayed earlier clearly told a different story. Obviously Victor Trevor had been a good friend. In moments like this John realized that of course there had been a Sherlock Holmes before meeting John Watson. Somehow John had always assumed there had never been someone else with him, at least no one of any importance. Which was childish and unfair, John knew very well. Because the existence of Victor Trevor didn't make the existence of John Watson less important.

"What happened? I mean it sounds as if you got along well," John inquired, sounding as innocent as possible.

"Victor invited me to his father's estate in Donnithorpe, Norfolk, to spend one month of the holidays with him there. You can imagine I wasn't too eager to spend the holidays at home with Mycroft, so I accompanied him. He was his father's only child; his mother and sister had died in a car accident when Victor was seven. His father was a judge, a small but massive man, very powerful in both body and mind. One evening Victor told his father about my methods, which were a mere hobby in those days. I made some deductions, which frightened the good judge nearly to death. Apparently he had been afraid of being attacked after a case her heard that concerned a smuggling ring. Well, to make a long story short, it was Victor's father who mentioned first that I might make a living with my abilities by becoming a detective. _'I don't know how you manage this, Sherlock, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of fancy would be children in your hands. That's your line of life, and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the world,'_ he told me."

John always had wondered what had brought Sherlock onto the path of the angels, so to speak, what prevented him from becoming the greatest criminal mastermind of all times.

"Judge Trevor remained friendly towards me, but I couldn't help but feel that he didn't trust me afterwards. I decided it might be better to shorten my stay and return to London. The day before my departure a man arrived. Although he seemed to be an old acquaintance of Victor's father, the judge was very nervous and frightened of him. The man went into Judge Trevor's service and I left Donnithorpe for London. I wasn't sorry to leave, to be honest. The atmosphere had become oppressive. At the end of the holidays I received a message from Victor, begging me to return to him. His father had suffered a stroke and was a dying man. When I arrived Victor had changed dramatically. He was thin and careworn by the ordeal. He believed the man from the past to be at fault but I couldn't imagine what power he might have held over the poor judge. Victor asked me to advise him in this situation. Apparently that man had behaved in an unforgivable manner towards the staff, and it had caused Victor's father a great deal of inconvenience to get the staff to stay. Short afterwards these incidents, the man had announced his departure, leaving the judge in a nervous state of mind. At the end of that week a letter arrived which obviously had caused the Victor's father to become ill. When I arrived, Victor's father had already died. Amongst his papers we found a letter and a declaration of his dealings with the man in question. Apparently Judge Trevor had made some financial missteps in the past which resulted in this unfortunate blackmailing affair. It broke Victor's heart. So he left London and went off to America."

"And so your friendship ended," John remarked.

"Yes. He stayed in touch though. The obligatory cards at Christmas. He seems to have gotten things right again."

"So that was the first case in which you were involved."

"Consciously, yes," Sherlock said, "When I was involved in the Carl Powers case I could not possibly have dreamt of where that path might lead me. I think it is safe to say that I owe the Trevors in some way."

John was curious. "Why have you never mentioned him before?" he blurted out unthinkingly.

"Victor Trevor lies in the past." Sherlock kept his voice indifferent.

"Will you see him again when it is all over?" John held his breath.

"Jealous?"

John could have sworn that the corners of Sherlock mouth twitched a bit for a moment.

"Well, let me see. You have asked me to be your fiancé….so I think I should be safe," John replied jokingly.

"Good deduction," Sherlock answered smiling.

Despite Sherlock's unaffectionate manner, John suspected some further involvement between the two gentlemen in question but decided against pushing the subject any further. Considering Victor Trevor's looks, John had no idea why people believed him to be Sherlock's chosen one. He did not resemble someone like Victor in the slightest. He even recalled that Moriarty and Irene Adler, too, were tall, dark haired and good looking. Although Sherlock was not in love with them but merely intrigued, John felt a bit out of place.

"What you fancy in the first place, might not be what is good for you," Sherlock stated, responding again more to John's thoughts than to his words.


	4. The Happy Announcement

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Chapter four

_Meet me at The Flower Walk, Kensington Gardens. GL_

"Lestrade's not at the Yard," Sherlock informed John before he addressed the cabbie. "Take us to Kensington Gardens, please."

"Kensington Gardens?" John asked.

"I asked him for information on the Aldershot murder. Davies and I are not on good terms. Lestrade will have to tell him I'm investigating the case."

"Right. Didn't you say just this morning we will start the case in three weeks?"

"We will investigate in Aldershot three weeks from now. The victims were murdered there. However we have to prepare ahead of time."

"Doing what?"

"Relationship therapy sessions in London. Victor will get us an appointment for our intake interview on Thursday morning."

"This week?"

"We need to do some sessions in the next couple of weeks so we can take part on a workshop in Aldershot three weeks from now. We may be able to find a suitable one. Besides I need to speak to Victor's partner as soon as possible. Lestrade will have to do me a favor. "

Since he owed him several, John knew that wouldn't be a problem. When Sherlock returned from the dead Lestrade already had three unsolved murders that year. His career had been somewhat damaged. Sherlock let him get the credit for arresting Moriarty's henchman Sebastian Moran and solving the murder of Ronald Adair. One could say Lestrade even owed him his career.

As soon as the taxi stopped, Sherlock stormed out to find Lestrade. John quickly paid the cabbie and followed his friend.

"There you are, Inspector. Do you have my information?" Sherlock inquired immediately.

Lestrade smiled and welcomed them both. "Afternoon, Sherlock, John."

"Afternoon, Greg," John replied. Detective Inspector Lestrade had become a good friend in the last couple of years. Dealing with Sherlock, who could be a little trying at times, certainly had created a bond between them.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

"What brings you on that case, by the way? Aldershot is quite a distance," the DI asked smiling.

"I've been consulted on the case, Inspector," Sherlock remarked impatiently.

"Getting famous are we?" Lestrade asked jokingly.

"I believe I have already made my name." There was an air of haughtiness in Sherlock's voice.

"No one has forgotten that, Sherlock. Behave!" John whispered angrily. He had a problem with Sherlock's egotism which was a strong factor in his singular character.

"Sherlock, really, there is no…..Oh my God. You're wearing rings," Lestrade suddenly yelled. The officers around them turned their heads in their direction. John realized too late that Sherlock wasn't wearing his gloves. So the silver ring was shining brightly on the ring finger on his left hand. Somehow Sherlock was wearing it like other people wear a crown. No denial was possible. Three people in one day. He couldn't believe his bad luck.

"You are stating the obvious." Sherlock remained perfectly calm.

Lestrade took a close look at him. "But you are wearing the _same_ rings".

"You were right John. This really is embarrassing," Sherlock groaned. "Of course we are wearing the same rings. Why would we wear different ones?"

John was sure Sherlock had no idea what John had meant earlier- and meant something very different himself.

Lestrade looked at him with a quizzical expression. "You mean….they mean something? "

Sherlock only frowned at him.

"You proposed?" Lestrade asked perplexed.

Sherlock glowered at him. "Good deduction, Inspector. I have high hopes for your career if you carry on like that."

"Holy Moly," Lestrade cried.

"Jesus…This really is embarrassing." John sighed. He already felt somewhat guilty about the whole affair although no lie had actually been told. Sherlock did propose in his own way and the rings did mean something.

"I know. I told you we should have texted," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"You know what? Have it your way. Text the rest." John gave in. Sherlock could text whomever he wanted to. Unfortunately there was no way for him to get through this by just sending a text to his sister.

"I mean….well guys…..It's not that we didn't expect you to but…There is a pool going on at the Yard actually, but …..well…...Congratulations…It's great. I hoped you would get there eventually. Especially after…you know," Lestrade stammered somewhat helpless.

"Good. Great. Greg, maybe we can discuss this at some later time. This is a crime scene for God's sake," John almost shouted.

"Right. Of course. Well, now you're here, maybe you would like to take a look at the victim?" It seemed that was Lestrade's way of apologizing.

"What do you have?" Although Sherlock wasn't enthusiastic, he went along. He knew John wouldn't talk to him for hours if he got a row with Lestrade for nothing.

Lestrade gave them the details. "Female. Approximately forty years old. Strangled. Dead for probably six hours. No sexual abuse, nothing is missing. No one heard or saw anything."

Sherlock went around the body, knelt beside it, measured God knows what. While he inspected the surroundings, John stayed next to Lestrade.

"I apologize, Greg. He is, well…."

"Himself?" Lestrade tried but couldn't help smirking.

"Yeah," John chuckled. "Very much so."

"I'm sorry, John, if I didn't react….well. I just didn't expect Sherlock to be a traditionalist after all. You must know I really am glad you have come to terms," Lestrade apologized and patted John on the shoulder encouragingly.

"I know. It's just that it is…..new, for all of us," John replied evasively.

"What did Mycroft say?" the DI asked with a mischievous smile.

John smiled faintly and shrugged. "He doesn't know yet. You know Sherlock."

"You're looking for a male Caucasian, approximately six feet. He is probably working at the Docklands, has two terriers and is her ex-husband. And you should talk to Detective Inspector Gregson." Sherlock returned to them, looking very pleased with himself.

"What? Where does that come from?" Lestrade inquired, baffled.

"You should be able to do it on your own from here. My name doesn't need to appear in your report. My information, please." Sherlock hold out his hand, watching Lestrade expectantly. Stunned, he handed over the documents without comment.

"How did you know?" John asked him, interested, when they left a very confused Lestrade behind.

"Gregson found a male victim two days ago. I investigated for him while you were at the surgery. Gregson's victim was the new boyfriend of Lestrade's victim. I shall spare you the details. It was a rather boring case," Sherlock explained.

"You know the two don't get on well with each other," John remarked.

Sherlock grinned broadly. "Yes. That just makes my day!"

"You're evil, you know that?" John asked, but couldn't suppress a smirk all the same.

* * *

><p><em>Got engaged. S<em>

"What are you doing?" John inquired suspiciously when he entered their living room, finding Sherlock stretched out on the sofa with his phone in his hands.

Sherlock didn't bother to look up. "Text. Mycroft."

"Are you serious? You really are texting your brother about our engagement?" John asked. His voice clearly showed his disapproval of Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock looked at him for the fraction of a second. "Problem?" he asked, indifferently.

_What's going on? MH_

"He is texting me, now. Why do I end up telling everyone? Don't be so cryptic," John remarked, irritated.

_Sherlock proposed. JW_

_Thank God. The happy announcement at last….. Congratulations. MH_

_It took you ages. M_

_Predictable! S_

_Behave. M_

_Predictable is boring. S_

_I admire your nerve. MH_

_You're lucky he is saint like. M_

_At least he is not predictable. S_

_I send you my best wishes. You are good for him. MH _

_Thank you. I suppose. JW_

_Nevertheless….I am very happy for you. M_

_Great. Sentiment. How dull! S_

_Tell him that I mean it. MH_

John scrutinized his friend sternly, arms akimbo. "What have you told him? He says he means it," he demanded to know.

Sherlock sighed and sat up. "He probably does. He is so sentimental. You know, John, you are supposed to hate him, actually."

Despite himself, John had to smile. "Really? Interesting. So I am supposed to hate him because he was in on your faked death, although I forgave you?"

"I never expected you to forgive me. You know that," Sherlock replied.

"That's not the subject. And just for the record: I was bound to forgive him, too. He kept you alive."

"You're supposed to be on my side. You're my fiancé." Sherlock pouted.

John was unmoved, since he was accustomed to his every mood. "Yes, I am. And he is my brother-in-law to be. One, who occasionally _is_ the British government. I am determined to be on good terms with him. And besides, he is on your side too."

"He _likes_ you, John."

"He likes you, _too_. I am not going to stand between you two. Just get on." John knew that Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship had improved he met them. Especially the year in which he believed Sherlock to be dead helped the brothers get on better with each other.

Sherlock made a face. "Not my concern right now," he stated and dismissed the subject with a wave.

Just when John wanted to make a point, his phone rang. At first he was afraid it might be Mycroft, not being too busy anymore to call, but then he recognized Harry's office number. _Oh, no…_

"It's Harry," John said with a sour look.

"Get it over with," Sherlock remarked impassively, walking over to the window.

"I can't. I just can't."

"You were a soldier, John. Don't be such a coward," Sherlock replied, looking out of the window thoughtfully.

John was fuming by now. Sherlock knew exactly which buttons to push to get John right where he wanted him to be. And he was right of course. Besides Sarah already knew and Harry and she met occasionally.

"Hello, Harry," John picked up the phone, greeting his sister.

"Hi, John. I was wondering if you would like to come over to dinner. I have invited two lovely colleagues who would be happy to meet you. They are just your type," Harry replied cheerfully.

"Uhm…Harry, that's very nice of you but I already have other plans," John answered, hesitating.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"John, you really should…," Harry started, but John interrupted her.

"Harry, I have to tell you something. I wanted to come over and tell you personally but we have a new case and I won't have much time in the next couple of weeks."

"What's wrong?" she asked, worried.

John sighed. "Don't worry. Everything is fine. Uhm….I really have no idea how to tell you this."

"Just get out with it. John, stop scaring me. What is wrong? Shall I come over?"

_Heaven forbid._

John quickly allayed her fears. "No, no, there's no need to. You know about the discussions I had with Mary. About Sherlock."

"Yes."

"She was right."

"About what?"

"Us."

_Please, just understand this. Don't make me say it._

"I don't understand."

John swallowed hard. "We are a couple, Harry."

"Couple? Of course you are." She sounded confused.

"We are actually an engaged couple." There was no lie in that ironically.

"Like in engaged to be married?"

John winced. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. After a few seconds, he realized what his sister had said a moment before and his eyes flew open. "In what other sense? What do you mean you know we are? Harry, less than two minutes ago you wanted to hook me up with some of your colleagues."

"John, I'm sorry. But it was always so obvious. I mean I would never have believed it because of the way you looked at Clara but… the first time I saw you two together I could see what people meant," she replied nervously.

"What?" John gasped disbelievingly.

"You lived under my roof for several months, John. I'm not blind. He faked his death to protect you and you left your wife for him the moment he came back. Of course you are a couple."

"You never said a thing."

_Why didn't she? Should she have? Why was he even thinking about it in the first place?_

"I knew you would tell me in your own time. When you realized it yourself. So you are engaged? That's great, John. I like him."

He could hear her honest joy over the news in her voice.

"Glad to hear it." John felt miserable now.

"Go to him then. I'll call you back later."

"Right. Thank you."

Harry giggled. "Bye and give him my love."

"Will do. Bye."

"My own sister believes this. MY. OWN. SISTER," John said when he hung up the phone, shaking his head in disbelief.

Sherlock looked at John closely and shrugged. "Well, that's the point of it, John."

"She gives you her love."

"Urgh. Great," Sherlock grimaced, still playing with his phone.

"So it's done. Everyone knows. Everyone's happy." John was surprised it only took them one day and no one doubted the story even the slightest bit.

"Good. The tedious part is behind us then," Sherlock stated with a tone of relief in his voice.

John frowned at him. "You know that I could feel insulted by your unromantic feelings towards this engagement."

"I know you're not. You are John and you know me. Besides I initiated this engagement and therefore made my intentions clear," he dismissed John's objection.

_ In other words, he showed enough emotion._

"One day you will be death of me," John exclaimed and heaved a sigh.

"I believe that to be highly improbable, John."

John decided to change the subject. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

John made his way to the kitchen, poured the tea into two cups and returned to the living room. He placed Sherlock's cup in front of him and took his usual seat on the sofa. It had certainly been one of the hardest days of his life and he longed forward to a silent evening of watching his favorite crap telly.

"So it's time for practice then, John. Where do you prefer to do it? Sofa?"

_Do it?_

"You can't be serious. It's Tuesday. You are serious, aren't you? Oh my God…"

"John, why do you keep saying that?" Sherlock inquired, irritated.

"What are we going to practice then?" He wasn't sure if he would want to find out.

_Why do I have to ask? Stupid!_

"Being together," Sherlock remarked.

"We always are….never mind." John watched Sherlock's every move suspiciously as he sat down beside him. Sherlock suddenly took his hand into his own. He practically crushed it.

"You are not supposed to break it, you know," John stated after a moment.

"Err, quite right. Sorry." Sherlock kept staring at him.

"I still feel uncomfortable. This is not going to work this way."

"How am I supposed to do it then, John? I told you I have no experience." Sherlock sounded embarrassed.

The practice obviously wasn't meant for John only. What had he done with Victor then? Since it was Sherlock he probably skipped a few steps. Like turning from friends into fiancés.

"That's OK. We both need practice. That's good."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I'm not the only idiot here, then."

"Alright."

John took Sherlock's hand gently into his own, still feeling a bit awkward about the whole situation. Being intimate with your best friend was a bit weird after all. "There you go. Just watch telly with me or read a book. We need this to be natural. Second nature. Don't focus on it."

"OK. Fine." Sherlock let him take the lead. Probably for the first and the last time in their relationship.

Absentmindedly, John kept caressing Sherlock's hand with his thumb.

"How do you feel?" John asked when Sherlock suddenly shifted his position some time later. When not thinking about it, it felt surprisingly…..nice, John had to admit.

"Good, I think. Relaxed." That didn't happen often, since his mind was like a rocket.

"Really?"

"Been to my mind palace. Stored the data," Sherlock replied.

_Of course. He couldn't not just turn his brain off._

"Not deleted it then?" John teased him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I never delete your data, John. I actually had to move you in my palace."

John was taken aback. "Move me? Inside your palace?"

"Yes the room was getting too small, obviously. We've been together for several years now."

"I have a room in your palace?"

"Well, actually you take up quite a lot of space. We always are together."

"You never delete data about me?" John inquired, surprised.

Sherlock looked at him closely. "No why would I?"

"You deleted the solar system."

"I only delete what is not important, John. My work is important and you are a part of my work."

That was as close to a compliment as you would get from him.

"How much space do I own?" John was curious.

"A wing, actually," Sherlock answered.

The palace had several wings, of course.

"I own a wing in your palace." John said more to himself than to Sherlock.

"Yes, but I wouldn't blab about if I were you, people might talk," Sherlock answered, smiling cheekily and winking at John.

"Funny, Sherlock. And if someone asks you, I have that space because I am your friend, and not because I am part of your work." With that John stood up and brought his cup into the kitchen. "I am really tired. Being your fiancé is exhausting."

"Well, I have my standards. Don't worry. So far you are doing just fine," Sherlock replied with a mischievous grin.

"Night, Sherlock."

John made his way to his bedroom but stopped dead at the door.

"Sherlock, why are your bed linens in my bedroom?" He shouted downstairs, anger building up inside. _Don't forget he is your friend. Your best friend. He could have been dead. You could have been alone. He is a good man. A difficult man, but good nevertheless._

"Our bedroom."

John shrieked. Sherlock had suddenly appeared behind him, whispering in his ear.

"Oh, no. No way. I am not letting you sleep in my bedroom. There are limits," John exclaimed.

"We are fiancés. I believe we are supposed to sleep together," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John shot him a glance. "We are old-fashioned. No bedroom sharing until we are married."

"People believe we do a little bit more than just sharing the room, John." Sherlock gave him a meaningful look.

"Oh my God."

"We have to share a bed in Aldershot, too. Better get used to it. We could have shared mine but I think yours is a bit more…..cosy, I believe, is the word people use," Sherlock grinned.

John grimaced. "I just hope you're not a snorer."


	5. Marriage Counseling I

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**Since I am absolutely no expert on relationship counseling I just wrote what came to my mind; what questions the counselor would probably ask and how our detectives might react to their first session.  
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Chapter five

In the waiting room to attend their first counseling session that week, John was looking out of the window, bad- tempered.

As if the upcoming session were not bad enough, he had woken this morning with Sherlock in his arms. Evidently the consulting detective was very possessive in his sleep, too. At first John didn't realize where he was, because something was different. There had been a different scent around him and considerable warmth. Slowly the events of the day before had come back to his mind and his eyes flew open. He had found himself wrapped in Sherlock's arms, and with one of his friend's legs around his body. The detective had been fast asleep, which was a rather rare sight. Sherlock was kind of…..cute when he was sleeping. Vulnerable and innocent. A sight which was meant for John only, and only on the very rare occasions when the detective fell asleep on the couch. Without pulling a blanket over himself of course; another thing John found himself doing.

However, Sherlock had not fallen asleep on the couch that night, but in John's bedroom - which apparently had become their bedroom now. To make things worse, John obviously had responded to Sherlock's attentions and flung his own arms around him, contributing to the rather entangled position he had found himself in. Not that it had been a particularly unpleasant sensation to feel someone's body close to his own again, in general. But the someone had been Sherlock and that was weird. Or rather, unfamiliar. While Sherlock had absolutely no sense of personal space or boundaries, or at least he was not interested in them, he seemed to avoid close physical contact most of the time. Although John had to confess that the boundaries between them had become rather vague lately.

Sherlock had simply chosen to ignore John's confusion when he had woken up, due to John's efforts to free himself from Sherlock's grip. He had just looked at John, then at his watch, and then simply got up to take a shower. How a man could be so oblivious was beyond John. Therefore John greeted him with a simple 'EAT!' when he came to the kitchen for breakfast. John could tell that Sherlock was struggling with himself. John had been ready to start an argument with his friend about his eating habits and the promise he had given John. Surprisingly, instead of saying anything Sherlock sat down and ate what John had prepared for him.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson?" the little, blonde receptionist addressed them. "Dr. Stevens is ready to see you now."

John followed Sherlock silently, still trying to ignore him. When they entered the consulting room, Dr. Stevens greeted them with a disarming smile. She was about John's age, with long brown hair and friendly features. Not exactly his type, but she was a very pleasant person to talk with. Sherlock had probably already deduced her life story.

"So why are you here today? How can I help you?" she started after chatting about the weather and their journey.

John was relieved that Sherlock hadn't insulted her within five minutes, because Sherlock hated small talk. They took seats facing one another, leaving Dr. Stevens to take the seat between them.

"We recently got engaged," John managed to say. Well that was certainly a problem but not an accidental one. At least on Sherlock's part._ They had absolutely no problem at all, she could possibly help them with._

"Well, that is wonderful."

"Yes, isn't it", Sherlock cut her short. "We hope you will be able to help us bring our relationship to a new level."

_Engagement certainly was a new level._

"To a new level?" she asked, interested, taking her pen to make notes.

"Sherlock is not the romantic type. It's difficult for him to show his emotions… at all." John started to name the only problem he could think of that would not make the therapist think they were mental. He tried to smile convincingly, not to think of body parts in the fridge, kidnapping brothers, or chemical experiments on the kitchen table. A short glance at Sherlock told John that he wasn't too happy with the subject John had chosen.

"John has a problem with public display of affections." Sherlock earned himself a death glare from John, which he ignored in return.

"Am I right in believing that you want me to help you to explore your feelings towards each other and to be able to show your affections privately or publicly more easily?" Dr. Stevens tried to summarize their concerns in her own words.

_No, not at all. Thank you very much. _There was absolutely nothing that needed to be explored, John thought silently sighing.

"Yes," both men were able to produce through gritted teeth.

"Good. Acknowledgement of the problem is always the first step toward solving it." Dr. Stevens smiled reassuringly towards both of them. "I will be asking you many questions to understand your lives and relationship as well as I can. In counseling, we will try to identify and break free of the destructive emotional cycles that you fell into in order to build trust and strengthen your connection to one other."

"Agreed," Sherlock answered a little too quickly for John's taste.

"John, please tell me how you met," Dr. Stevens addressed him expectantly. She had an open and encouraging air.

Why did it always have to be him first? Of course John knew he was much more approachable than Sherlock. "A mutual friend introduced us. We were both looking for a flat mate."

"How was that first meeting? Love at first sight or did it take time to develop your feelings towards Sherlock?" She smiled at him patiently because John didn't answer at once.

Sherlock watched him silently, apparently amused by the question and interested in the answer John would come up with.

Again there was too much subtext around Sherlock that screamed "punch me." John decided to leave it for what it was and ignore his friend again. "It definitely took time. I mean he was….well….interesting. I didn't fall in love with him, but he certainly caught my attention. My interest in him gradually deepened and increased." _Well, he was arrogant and charming at the same time and I was absolutely convinced that he was a madman. Now, I know for sure he is._

"And how was it for you, Sherlock?" The therapist gave him a winning smile. She obviously knew it would take time for him to open up. Secretly, John wished her luck. Soon she would probably need her own therapist.

"He was different from the others. I believe he had his doubts about me, but he didn't draw back. There was a connection from the beginning, but no, there was no love at first sight." Sherlock appeared to remain calm, detached, unmoved.

"The connection was there immediately, that's true. But it took time to get to where we are now. We were flat mates first. Flat mates developed into colleagues, colleagues into friends, friends into best friends, and best friends into….." _Fiancés. We missed a step somewhere along the line._

"Lovers." Sherlock helped and looked at John intensely. John had seldom seen him more determined. Last time was on the rooftop of St. Bart's and John didn't want to think about it.

"Apparently." John smiled weakly. He would go wherever Sherlock led him. It was obvious that this whole case was important to him. His anger slowly evaporated.

"Well, when did your problem manifest itself? You became a couple after all."

"It has always been a problem. But it is becoming a bigger issue, now our relationship has developed." Sherlock continued quickly. "We will not break up, Dr. Stevens. Never. We have to find a way to conquer this or it will destroy us."

_Where did that come from? _John looked, surprised, at the detective whose face still gave nothing away.

"I understand. How did you become lovers?"

_Yes, Sherlock, how on earth did we become lovers? _Was that the right word after all? John's thoughts darted back to the events of the morning. Why did it feel so right when it should have felt so wrong?

"Just like John said. It developed so gradually, I really couldn't tell you when exactly. Although it wasn't love at first sight, it started there and then," Sherlock pointed out.

"John?"

Slowly Dr. Stevens voice reached John's subconscious. "Sorry?" John asked confused. He had been somewhat distracted. The memories of that morning were unsettling him.

"Sherlock just explained how your love developed gradually."

"Oh, yes. It just happened. We never could convince anyone that we weren't a couple. Everybody else knew, when we didn't," John agreed. Great, not paying attention during the therapy session wasn't the best indication of wanting to save a relationship.

"We never really needed to talk about it. I mean we have arguments, of course. There never was much of a traditional romance. But now it is slowly tearing us apart", Sherlock continued his version of their "problem".

Having problems talking about their feelings as well as showing them - John saw Dr. Stevens writing it down. She was a smart counselor after all.

"There must have been an occasion? Something that created intimacy?" She looked at both of them, trying to create some more interaction between the men.

John looked at Sherlock, who watched him with an interested air. Sherlock really had handsome features, John had to admit. He liked the calm grey-blue eyes, burning with the fire of investigation. They just remained like that for a couple of minutes silently.

"The pool might have been a turning point", John offered.

"Possibly. Made me think", Sherlock went along with it. About what the incident made him think, he remained silent.

"The pool?" Dr. Stevens looked at them questioningly.

"He discovered he had a heart, after all," John explained.

"I actually ripped his clothes off," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. The intimacy that had built up vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

"Why don't you put it up on the noticeboard?" John replied angrily. It was bad enough that everyone believed he was making love with Sherlock, he certainly didn't want to invent sexual adventures in darkened swimming pools _and_ talk about it.

"No one saw us," Sherlock defended himself, watching John innocently.

"That's not the point." John frowned at him disapprovingly. He knew that Sherlock was doing this on purpose, but the purpose remained unclear for the moment.

"You always think about what people might think, what people might say, what people might do." Sherlock was sulking.

"One of us has to," John reminded him.

"People do little else, John. It's not important." His voice was louder than usual. He seemed to be genuinely upset.

The therapist decided it was time to intervene. "Well, I'd like to talk about that later on in the counseling process again. For now I conclude that you have been involved in events at a pool which led to intimacy between you. It is apparent that there is uncertainty on both sides on how to express this intimacy. Let's move on to your motivations in starting this relationship. Why did you fall for Sherlock, John? What makes him special?"

"He is a brilliant man. The energy he puts into his work until he achieves his goals is very impressive. Quite extraordinary. He can be very charming if he wants to, you know." John still glared disapprovingly at Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes.

"Your work is an important factor in this relationship," Dr. Stevens stated simply.

"Yes, but work has changed. London has become a singularly uninteresting city since Jim's departure," Sherlock said, making a face.

"Are you actually missing the maniac? I don't think you will find many decent citizens who agree with you." John looked at Sherlock in disbelief, slightly shocked.

"Missing is not the right word, John." Sherlock sighed dramatically. Probably just to annoy John. "Well, I must not be selfish. The community is certainly the gainer and no one the loser, except for the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field every day presented infinite possibilities. But now….." He shrugged his shoulders in humorous depreciation of the situation which he had himself done so much to produce.

"Who is Jim?" the therapist inquired, confused.

"A colleague," Sherlock explained nonchalantly, looking out of the window with a grimace of misery.

"A lunatic." John was furious by now. How could he talk of him like that when he caused them so much pain? Almost sentimentally. Although he always claimed to hate sentiment.

"He was my hated rival," Sherlock explained.

"No, you didn't hate each other. That's the disturbing bit about it." John kept staring at him and found Sherlock staring back. Tension built up again. This time different than before.

"What are you implying? That I was in love with him?" Sherlock's melancholy seemed to have gone. He was angry now.

Sulking moods and anger were probably not the best combination for Sherlock, but John didn't care. John was hurt. "You were obsessed with each other."

"Well, there are not many men like him out there, no," Sherlock replied, looking defiantly at John.

"Thank God, there are not. And you have no reason to complain whatsoever. Business is booming," John cried.

Sherlock watched John intently. "I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal, John. We conducted the most brilliant bit of thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection. Never have I risen to such a height and never have I been so hard pressed by an opponent. You have no idea what that's like, to meet with someone who never bores you."

"I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed yourself, at least," John sneered. Oh, how he hated this argument.

"What happened?" Dr. Stevens intervened before they could start a major argument.

"He cheated on me and left me alone." John knew there was an accusing tone in this but he couldn't help it.

"You married the moment I was gone", Sherlock replied curtly. That was an accusation, too.

"Excuse me? I thought you were dead, Sherlock. DEAD!" John yelled.

"And because you believe me to be dead you have to marry someone else immediately? You are supposed to mourn for some time," Sherlock returned with some asperity in his voice.

"I tried to stay sane, you bloody idiot. You broke my heart. Just because you divorced yourself from your own feelings doesn't mean you can hurt me like that!" There it was. He had said it. _You broke my heart._ And it was true. But also….a bit not good. Especially not as an answer to '_marry someone else'_.

"You broke up with each other and Sherlock seemed to be dead?" Apparently she had gotten lost in their story.

John couldn't blame her. He got lost in it a long time ago.

"Misunderstanding," Sherlock answered quietly. He seemed to have forgotten her presence for a moment. It was not until then that he took his eyes off John.

"You had feelings for Jim?" Dr. Stevens tried to regain their attention.

"I had to sort things out with him. We had something special. I got lost in my admiration of his skill. However, in the end he was not my sort," Sherlock replied. He was his masterful self again.

"What role does Jim play in your life today? You said he departed," she asked.

"He is not important. Not anymore." Sherlock's eyes lingered on John once more, his face unreadable again.

"You don't want to talk about him," Dr. Stevens remarked.

"He's dead," he said matter-of-factly to her. "I don't miss him, I just miss the challenge."

"Oh, I see. Well, you and John got back together." She probably already believed that to be a miracle.

"John forgave the unforgivable." Suddenly Sherlock looked vulnerable again.

From time to time John had to remind himself that it had been a difficult time for him, too, and what he went through to protect him.

"The misunderstandings were resolved?" she inquired.

"I was angry and hurt. But after a while I realized I still had feelings for Sherlock. I knew I had to let go if we wanted to move forward again," John said slowly and then turned towards Sherlock. "Now I have forgiven you completely." John emphasized the last bit. "Forgiving just does not mean that one forgets about it. Sometimes it still does hurt."

Sherlock remained silent, but gave John a nod.

"What do you like about John, Sherlock?" Maybe she thought it was better to lead their attention towards another subject.

"He is not boring. He is not ordinary like other people. John is a practical man, a man of action. With him, there's no need for continuous conversation. There is a quiet calmness when he is around."

John knew Dr. Stevens would dig deeper into the topic in the following sessions because of their reticence, and cursed her silently for it.

"Tell me about your morning rituals," she told John.

"We have none." John declared quickly. _Heaven forbid!_

Dr. Stevens took a close look at John. "No cuddling in the morning? No having breakfast together?"

"None. I mean that depends on Sherlock's …work planning." Mood was also an important variable, John thought. "He is a very busy man. He has a very unpredictable schedule. Most of the time he gets up much earlier and very often he is already gone when I wake up." Since they just started cuddling the very same morning very unconsciously, John thought one couldn't count that one as a ritual. And more important, was that going to become a ritual or not?

"You said you were colleagues?" she asked further.

"I'm working part time at a surgery and I'm working part time with him. Sherlock works as a freelance consultant. Some days we work together all day long and sometimes we do not see each other for days. It really is very unpredictable," John replied. That sounded lame and awful. Like a couple that really needed therapy, while in reality their life was great. Nerve-wracking sometimes, but great.

John watched Sherlock carefully. The detective was obviously bored with the therapy session. His fingers tapped nervously on the armchair. It obviously took all his will to not deduce her out loud. John knew him too well. When he was bored he easily forgot his good manners.

"No rituals at all?" Dr. Stevens added, scribbling remarks in her book. She didn't bother to look up.

"He sends me texts." What kind of ritual was that? John though with exhaustion. Well, at least, it was true. Sherlock always texted John whether it was appropriate or not. Like when John was in his bedroom and Sherlock was downstairs.

"Love messages?" she asked.

John shook his head. "No. Just things that come to his mind. Things he wants to discuss, things he wants me to know, things he wants me to do. Feelings are more like….subtext."

"Subtext?"

John started to feel sorry for her.

"He is a difficult man," John offered. "I don't know. He seems to think feelings are some kind of weakness, something that could affect his brilliant mind in a negative way."

"Honestly, John. Why would one to talk about it all the time? I made myself clear once. If my attitude towards you changed, I'd just tell you. Have you ever been in love, Dr. Stevens? It's terrible. Someone gets into your heart and messes up everything. I never let my heart rule my head," Sherlock exclaimed.

"To you it's only a dangerous disadvantage, Sherlock. But love also is a choice. A conscious and rational decision you make, to commit to and to care for someone more than you do for yourself. You can let your heart negotiate with your head without letting one rule the other," John explained in a soft voice.

_Couple is afraid of commitment. _John was glad he still could read upside down. He liked the idea of having as much information from the therapist's side as possible. He didn't want to be confronted with surprises in counseling.

"What does this mean to you, John?" Dr. Stevens addressed him.

"I wish he would let me in." John knew that Sherlock trusted him more than anyone else and that he was the person closest to him. However, he was also well aware that there always remained a gap between them. Sherlock barely ever let down his defenses. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the great heart as well as the great mind. John met Sherlock's gaze, not able to read the thoughts behind his emotionless mask. Sherlock's eyes rested calmly on him, probably deducing John.

The therapist stopped pressing. They were not yet ready to speak about their feelings. By this time, she must be convinced they were mental. Maybe John should have chosen the body parts as a subject after all.

"Your work seems to be the center of the relationship. But it is not enough to keep you together. You will need love for this. Speaking about your love for each other is a first step, but you have to start showing this love too." The mediator started talking about how the next step would be a contract to follow rules for interacting with one another.

"I suggest on planning on approximately 20 sessions. We also have a clinic outside of London where you can take part in marriage education workshops. Please make your appointments with my secretary. I'd like to start with you this week if that is possible with your working schedules?"

"No problem at all. We are at your disposal", Sherlock managed sweetly.

"I would like each of you to keep a journal, detailing things that happen between sessions that you want to continue to happen. Besides that, I would like each of you to express your appreciation five times a day. We're going to implement this as a routine throughout the day. Like saying 'I love you' at the end of every session, when you wake up and when you go to bed. "

"Oh, dear," John sighed, becoming tired.

"We really need to sort this out, John. I am desperate." Sherlock dramatically took his hand. John needed to focus on not starting to laugh. Not because it was funny but because it made him nervous.

"Not as desperate as I am, I assure you", John managed to answer seriously. He was really desperate to end this playacting and to return to being …whatever they were.

"I love you, John," Sherlock told him with a serious face.

"I love you, too," John replied, silently sighing.

Dr. Stevens looked relieved about having taken the first steps when she led them out of the room.

* * *

><p>"Well, that was tedious. As if someone saves the world or ends a war by saying 'I love you' and starting over," Sherlock complained when they left the building.<p>

"Sometimes one does." John replied softly. "By the way, don't you think you let it sound a bit too dramatic? It will destroy us? Really?"

"We needed a problem. You created one. I just went along. Now we have a cover," Sherlock remarked.

John raised his eyebrows. "I created a problem, Sherlock? You have that problem, remember?"

"You have _that_ problem, too," Sherlock parried smirking.

"What should I have said then? We normally show our affection by shooting our enemies or tricking them into committing suicide? You know that we will have to make a good story now. We will see her on Friday and you better have made up our love story by then."

"You fell for me. Being all mysterious with my cheekbones and turning my coat collar up, so I look cool. End of story." Sherlock turned to him whispering. He had relapsed into the half-humorous, half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude towards the people close to him. Nothing remained of the close intimacy and emotions they had just experienced.

"Madman," John said.

"You adore me," Sherlock stated smugly.

"Arrogant prat."

"Although I'd love to discuss this any further, I better dash off. Lestrade arranged a call on David Jones. I'll be late tonight. Don't wait up for me." With that Sherlock kissed John on the cheek and hailed a cab, leaving John once more to his thoughts.


	6. A Case review

**The chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much!**

**Thanks to everyone taking the time to read my story. I'm very grateful. Please review. Let me know what you like, what you dislike ... You can also PM me of course.  
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><p><span>Chapter six<span>

When Sherlock returned at dinnertime his face was very grave.

"You're back early. Is everything alright?" John asked him worried. He closed the laptop on his legs and turned his undivided attention to his friend.

The detective hung up his coat on the door and flung himself onto his usual seat. "This is a more serious matter than I had expected. It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will be only an additional reason for you to run into danger. I should know you by now. But there is danger, and you should know it."

"Well it's not the first we have shared that. I hope it will not be the last," John replied. "What is so peculiarly dangerous this time?"

"I've been down to see Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative intuition down there but they lead the world for thoroughness and method," Sherlock explained, putting his fingertips together under his chin. "I told you I believed this murder to be the work of a serial killer?"

"You hinted at it," John admitted. Sherlock always took his time before explaining a case. He had learned through the years that the detective would share the details with John when he found the time was right to do so.

"Well, I believe it is safe to start with it as a working hypothesis. You know one should never theorize before having all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

John sighed. "Yes, you've told me so…several times." In fact, there had been no case during which he had failed to say this.

"It occurred to me immediately that this case might be related to the London Hotel murder two years ago. There were some parallels," Sherlock explained. "Not that the Yard makes any connection of the kind."

"How do you know that?" John asked curiously.

"You know that I always catalogue crimes," Sherlock replied.

John nodded. "Yes."

"I went to the Yard to verify some of my ideas about this case. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our friend in their records. Sure enough, I've been able to gather some pieces of circumstantial evidence of a connection. However, there have been more murders in the last five years that might be connected with the Aldershot murder. Some very nasty killings, John. I'm not easy in my mind about it."

"It's not our first serial killer, Sherlock."

"No, John. But this is one who has been able to evade the law for several years without the police even knowing they have a serial killer on the loose. This one's clever."

"You like them clever."

"I do. But it is an ugly, dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it," Sherlock replied. He leaned forward and his eyes glinted with excitement as they always did when he was keenly interested. "I have to admit though that this is a unique chance to lay our hands on him. Mr. and Mrs. Smith took part in a marriage education workshop which is taking place over three weekends. They were murdered on the first. The murderer must either be one of the staff or one of the participants. We can take the Smiths' place to investigate, and our murderer has no idea that we're on his trail. But I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have us both back safe and sound at home once more."

"Have you told Greg about it?" John wanted to know.

"No," Sherlock answered, hesitating.

"No? Why not?" John asked worried.

"I have no proof yet, John." Sherlock looked at him intensely. "Besides, he had other things on his mind," he added carefully.

"Like what?"

Sherlock took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it wordlessly to John.

"What is that?" John asked suspiciously.

"The best wishes of the Force for our engagement," Sherlock explained, grimacing.

John looked at Sherlock with disbelief. "Greg told them?"

"I don't think he got the chance to. His officers apparently spread the news before he was even back at the headquarters."

"That's unbelievable!" John cried. "Everyone has signed the card. Is there no one left who doesn't know?"

"I don't think so. And since everyone already knew about it, Lestrade obviously thought it was a good idea to send their regards."

"How very thoughtful of him!" John groaned. "What did you say to him? Please, tell me you behaved."

"I did, sort of. I might have said something to Anderson and Donovan," Sherlock admitted with an expression of guilt on his face.

"That doesn't count." It really didn't since he always said something to the one or the other of them. John had simply accepted that any improvement of Sherlock's manners would not include the two.

"I knew you wouldn't mind," Sherlock answered, relieved. "Besides, I had little time to say anything, because Gregson came in and they got involved in an argument. I sneaked away. Good you weren't with me. The congratulations were quite embarrassing."

John really didn't want to think of the Yarders' joy. He knew the relationship gave them great pleasure. The pool could be paid out at last.

"Speaking about embarrassment. There are more cards," John replied and pointed towards the sideboard.

Sherlock made a face. "From whom?"

"From Harry and Mary, for example."

"Mary? What can she have to say?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Harry and she are still in contact. She must have told her. Mary wishes us all the very best."

Sherlock watched John insecure. "Not good?"

"Bit not good," John replied miserably.

"Explain."

"I had arguments with her about you and me. Being together. I always denied it. This engagement is like a confession."

"Do you want her back?" Sherlock asked alerted.

"No. Why would I want her back?" John looked at Sherlock with surprise.

"What's the problem then?"

John lifted up an eyebrow. "You can't be serious? Everybody thinks I am a liar, Sherlock. That's the problem."

Sherlock hunched his shoulders in response. "She'll get over it. As for your reputation, I believe that no one of importance will think ill of you."

John was too tired to argue with Sherlock. He knew that his friend couldn't be bothered with what others thought of him. So he decided to drop the subject. "By the way, what became of your interview with David Jones?"

"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. You're rubbing off on me. I'm adopting your involved habit of telling a story backwards," Sherlock declared with some dramatic hand gestures.

"I assure you I always find your stories very clear and enlightening," John sneered.

Sherlock was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate reply to John's remark.

"David Jones seems to be well educated, with good manners and rational behavior. But also very unobservant. I really do not see what Victor sees in him. He's quite boring", Sherlock said thoughtfully, grimacing. "Actually, he wasn't very helpful over the case. He has absolutely no idea what happened or how it could have happened. He didn't actually give the workshop himself but has only given the introductory course. So he had only a passing acquaintance with the Smiths. Jones confirmed that nothing unusual happened at the clinic. That leaves us with my findings at the Yard and our forthcoming undercover operation."

"Victor seems to be very worried about David. I believe he cares a great deal about him. We cannot all meet your high standards, Sherlock," John replied, smiling despite himself. Sherlock obviously felt a pang of jealousy. "Maybe Victor says the same about me?" John teased him.

"Why would he do that? You're not unobservant; at least not as unobservant as the rest. You know what I mean," he added quickly, watching John, whose eyebrows were high on his forehead. "I guess love and understanding are seldom found together."

"Well, love is where you find it, Sherlock." In Sherlock's case one couldn't go by the saying that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. The way to his heart was through his head, obviously.

"Love is blind, obviously. Anyway….what were you doing in my absence?" Sherlock apparently had decided to change the subject before John could make any further inquiries.

"Sending invitations for the Christmas party. It was about time."

"What's the point anyway? To my mind, it is a waste of time," Sherlock replied smugly.

"Undoubtedly. But that will not get you out of it. You will get them proper gifts and be nice," John said severely.

"Obviously, since you leave me no choice." The detective was sulking again.

"You needed to put a ring on my finger, remember?"

"I'm hungry, John. Have you already had dinner?" Sherlock suddenly asked, ignoring John's comment.

John watched his friend in disbelief. "Huh? You? Hungry? You had breakfast this morning."

"You always say that an empty bag cannot stand upright."

"Usually, you don't listen to me."

"Now I am. Let's go out!" Sherlock jumped up and strode towards the door.

"Where to?"

"Angelo's."

"He'll bring candles," John protested weakly, but stood up and grabbed his jacket all the same.

"Well, we haven't had time yet to celebrate our engagement," Sherlock declared.

"I celebrate it on a daily basis, you know…..Never mind," John mumbled as he closed the door behind them.

When he stepped outside, John inhaled deeply. The air was fresh and it had started snowing again. Baker Street was slowly turning white. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a white Christmas for once?" John asked enthusiastically. "We haven't had one in years."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't react but continued his way, lost in thought. They were walking close to each other. Their arms were touching unintentionally. Every touch sent a shiver down John's back. They took the same route they took on their very first case together, and which they had taken often ever since. It was a fifteen minute walk from their flat to the restaurant in Soho. When they arrived, Sherlock held the door for John, who decided not to mention it.

"Sherlock! I haven't seen you in a month, mate. Thought you've found another place to date your boyfriend." They were greeted delightfully by the tall owner of their favourite restaurant.

The detective sighed and feigned a smile. "He isn't my boyfriend."

John looked up at Sherlock, relieved.

"He is my fiancé," Sherlock added dryly.

John's face fell and closed his eyes. Mentally he braced himself for the flood of enthusiasm and joy that would undoubtedly follow. Because everybody reacted like that.

"Oh my goodness! That's great! Please choose a seat. I'll bring the candles. We'll have live music tonight. Francesca will play something on the violin for you."

"That's really not necessary….," John started, alarmed, eyes wide open.

"But of course it is, mate. You've hit the jackpot. He is one of the most illustrious men in the country."

John couldn't answer. His moth was dry. He decided it might be the safest way to reply through a silent smile. _The most illustrious men in the country. Great._

"Come, John. We'll take the table at the window," Sherlock decided and dragged John along.

It was their usual table. They remained silent for a while. Partly, because John still had to think about the comment on their relationship, partly because Francesca decided to play some soppy love songs in front of their table while they were waiting for their food. She played dreadfully. Sherlock didn't trouble to hide his disgust. John kicked him under the table to prevent him from saying anything against her. It was John's way of making him pay for his smug "He's my fiancé" earlier. Unfortunately, he was also paying. John wasn't an expert on music but this was really bad. Both men sighed with relief when Francesca stopped playing and joined the owner in the kitchen.

"Why did you kick me? That hurt," Sherlock complained.

"You wanted to insult her," John replied flatly.

"She deserved it for what she was doing to the violin," Sherlock pouted.

"You will behave when I am with you."

Sherlock only growled as a reply.

When their food came, they started to eat in silence. John cast a glance towards his friend who seemed thoughtful again. John knew better than to ask him what he was thinking about. He would tell him when he made up his mind.

Sherlock suddenly looked up at John and reached slowly towards his hand on the table. "John?" His voice was soft, his tone gentle. Apparently he made his mind up very quickly this time.

"Yes?" John was startled by the touch but didn't move his hand away.

"Err….I think you should know that Victor was a nice bloke…back then," Sherlock said low voiced, looking uncomfortable.

"I see."

"He and I….well…we were…it was….," Sherlock stammered. Usually, he was never at a loss for words. Normally his mind raced and the words left him at speed of light.

"I know," John replied in a reassuring tone.

Sherlock was surprised. "You do?"

"I may not be a master of deduction, but I'm not blind either," John answered with a knowing smile.

"Oh."

"So…..What are you going to do about him? Will you keep seeing him when this is over?"

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "No, why would I?"

"I don't know. Maybe because you like him? Maybe because you share something?" John tried.

"Whatever it was, it's over now. Victor and I wouldn't have worked. He wouldn't have appreciated my work. He is more the domestic kind of guy." Sherlock emphasized the word "domestic" with a tone in his voice that made his dislike very clear.

"Probably." John also couldn't really picture Victor Trevor chasing after criminals down dark, narrow alleys in the middle of the night.

"He would have grown weary of making me eat and sleep and being patient when I am bored," Sherlock continued and smiled playfully.

"Don't forget the body parts and experiments," John added deadpan.

Both men chuckled and Sherlock removed his hand. The tension was broken and John was thankful for it. He still had to get used to this new part of Sherlock. The question was, which part of it was real and which part was play?

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier. The things I said in counseling about Moriarty. I know it's difficult for you and I know that you didn't like him. I really shouldn't have said that," John apologized.

"Don't make yourself uneasy. It's nothing. I know you didn't mean it like that," Sherlock replied.

"Tough day wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"I don't like counseling," Sherlock chuckled.

"Neither do I," John couldn't resist laughing. "I bet you would have loved to tell her your deductions to her face."

"Indeed."

"Tell me."

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because we'll stay in therapy with her and I don't want you to be distracted by what I might have told you about her."

John sighed. "Since when are you so reasonable?"

"Since you've spoiled me," Sherlock answered seriously. His eyes lingered on John with a look that John would have described as "haunted", if asked.

John was under the impression that Sherlock wanted to say something else, but the detective averted his gaze from him after a moment and turned his attention back to his dinner.

* * *

><p>Later in bed, John couldn't fall asleep. He heard the detective downstairs, playing the violin. Listening to the music, John recognized the melody as one of the songs Francesca had played for them that evening. Unlike Francesca, Sherlock played it flawlessly of course.<p>

When they returned from the restaurant they had caught Mrs. Hudson decorating the flat with garlands and balloons. John suspected Mrs. Turner was involved too. She had overdone it by far. There were garlands with red and white hearts, balloons in the shape of hearts everywhere, and a big banner saying "Congratulations" in front of the mirror above the chimney. Since Mrs. Hudson had taken such delight in her decorations, the men did not have the heart to take them down.

John was weary after his counseling adventure of that day. Considering the events of the day one could even say that he just had had an official date with Sherlock, even if latter had only jokingly told him they were going to have dinner in order to celebrate the engagement. _A date. Holding hands. Kissing cheeks. An engagement. Strange things were happening these days in Baker Street._ To make things worse he apparently had already gotten used to the detective's presence in his bedroom, because the bed felt strangely empty and he couldn't fall asleep.

Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem on his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. John was afraid that he was now preparing to sit up all night, or worse, play the violin.

Come to bed. J

Why? S

Because it's late. J

I'm not tired. S

But I am. J

Why aren't you sleeping then? S

Can't fall asleep. J

Come downstairs. S

No. Come upstairs. J

Why are we having this conversation? S

Because I can't sleep. J

No wonder if you keep texting me. S

The bed is cold. J

Do you miss me in your bed? S

Interesting. S

JUST COME UPSTAIRS WILL YOU? J

NOW. J

John didn't receive another text but heard the detective coming upstairs some minutes later. When he opened the door John could see his tall, slim figure in the dim light that was shining upon him from the street lamps.

"Here I am," the detective announced.

"I can see that. And I appreciate that very much, Sherlock. Will you just lay down now and go to sleep, please? I'm exhausted," John replied.

Wordlessly, Sherlock closed the door and laid down on his side of the bed. Suddenly John felt Sherlock slowly moving closer, until he could feel his breath.

"I appreciate very much that you appreciate this very much," Sherlock whispered in John's ear in a flirtatious tone.

John startled and felt his muscles tensing. Sherlock's deep baritone voice and the feeling of his breath against his neck gave John goose bumps. He blushed and was thankful that it was too dark to be seen.


	7. Marriage Counseling II

**This chapter is edited and betad! Beta: TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much.  
><strong>

**I used a case study from marriage counseling . It seemed to fit as a setting for their session. Please read and review. Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated. If you have any ideas how things should develop from now on, please let me know. I am very curious about it. Thank you again for your sweet support.**

Chapter seven

"I'm off to Tesco. We're out of milk. Need anything else?" Sherlock asked John, poking his head through the kitchen door.

"You? Off to Tesco?", John replied surprised and added, " Out of milk again?"

"Had an experiment going on."

"I don't want to know about it. Get some coffee, will you?" John asked while he took the coffee box out of the cupboard. When he opened it, he found a note. "I love you" was written neatly on it, in Sherlock's handwriting. _What the hell…._

"Sure." Sherlock was already on his way out.

"Ah, Sherlock. I need to talk to you."

That was unmistakably Mycroft's voice. John couldn't believe his bad luck.

"I'll be back in a bit, dear brother. John's home. Make yourself comfortable."

John could hear the forced niceness in Sherlock's voice; he obviously was still pissed off about Mycroft's reaction to the engagement.

"Morning, John." By the time Mycroft entered the living room, John had yet found another note, saying "I love you."

"Morning, Mycroft. Coffee?" John forced a smile.

"Yes, thank you. Already gotten used to this new domesticity?" Mycroft was smiling broadly. He apparently was enjoying himself immensely.

"With Sherlock around?" John laughed dryly, smiling genuinely this time. "You know your brother."

"How is he doing?" Mycroft inquired.

John took another cup out of the cupboard, where he found a third note. "Well, he decided to send me notes today, apparently," John answered sighing, holding the three notes in his hand. "Declarations of his love obviously. He probably watched crap telly or read something about it. He's a bit overdoing it actually. Not his usual self."

Mycroft was still smiling. "By the way, what happened to the flat, John?" he asked, making a wide gesture with his hand.

"Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a good idea to decorate the flat to celebrate…well…the engagement."

"Ah, that's very nice of her. I'm sure she meant well," Mycroft replied diplomatically.

John had no trouble imagining that for Mycroft the whole affair must be like Christmas and his birthday rolled into one.

"Yeah, I'm sure she did. It is not really our style, however…" John answered and left for the kitchen. He returned with freshly brewed coffee some moments later.

"Let me clean the table first. One never knows if Sherlock had an experiment going on this morning or not." While cleaning the surface he reached under it to catch the newspapers. In Baker Street papers could be found absolutely everywhere. Sherlock had the awful habit of accumulating papers and then, when he had finished them, tossing them somewhere. In this case, he had kept them for future reference under the coffee table. Under the table he found another note, and sighed. Mycroft chuckled.

John went back to the kitchen, taking his phone out to send a text.

_Under the table. Honestly? J_

"You obviously bring out the very best in him," Mycroft teased him, yelling in direction of the kitchen. "Surely he must have declared himself before. You're engaged."

_You found it. Good, John! I'm impressed. S_

"You know your brother. He's not the romantic type. He shows his feelings by buying the milk twice a year to apologize. Feelings are usually subtext," John told Mycroft, when he came back to the living room. "But he hasn't done anything very bad recently. So there's no need to apologize to me. Yet he is out, buying the milk. And sending me declarations. Probably he's up to some experiment I will not like very much and he's apologizing even before he's done anything," John continued, more to himself than to Mycroft.

"You understand him very well. Sounds like him," Mycroft grimaced, obviously thinking about some of his own experiences with his brother.

John thought it had to do something with the case at hand. But then with Sherlock no one could ever be sure.

_Are you planning on an experiment and apologizing even before you conduct it? J_

_Why am I texting you anyway when your brother is here? J_

John got the milk and the sugar pot, in which he found another of Sherlock's declarations. He sighed aloud. Mycroft barely could stifle his laughter.

_No. I'm not. No idea why you are. ;-) By the way which coffee brand do we use? There are too many choices. S_

"He just sent me a smiley. He never sends smileys," John muttered in disbelief.

_Taylor's. I honestly hope you have not taken any drugs! J_

_John! S_

_Sorry. How many notes are there? J_

;-) _S_

"Obviously, I haven't found them all, yet," John said to his future brother-in-law and sat down to make small talk about how things were going on in Baker Street and Whitehall.

* * *

><p>"Ah, Sherlock. We were just admiring your newfound romantic self," Mycroft greeted his younger brother when he entered the room with the groceries.<p>

"Funny, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled as a response.

"No, honestly. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Surely, I wouldn't share it with you."

"Coffee, Sherlock?" John intervened. He sometimes felt like a counselor himself when the two of them were around."

"Yes, thank you, Honey," Sherlock replied, smiling sweetly.

"No pet names. I've told you," John warned him and retreated to the kitchen to get another pot of coffee brewing. Sherlock followed him with the milk.

"I see you haven't found all of them…yet."

"You're really overdoing it a bit", John replied.

"Well, you cannot complain that I am not telling you…" Sherlock answered smiling, obviously very pleased with himself, and returned to the living room.

"Poor John was a bit overwhelmed by your actions, dear brother. Just one piece of advice. One note a day is perfectly reasonable."

"Just one?"

"Yes."

"Dull. Boring. Predictable."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"What have you come for anyway?" Sherlock asked.

"To give you a present."

"It's not my birthday and you're a bit early for Christmas too," Sherlock pointed out. John could tell from the kitchen that his friend was trying to look as uninterested as possible, just to annoy his brother.

"You're going to be married. Grandpa included you in his will. He bequeathed you his pocket watch, amongst other things, to be given to you and your spouse if you ever married. It is a valuable collection and you always wanted it when you were a child. He also left you a considerable amount of money," Mycroft explained, his smile never fading.

"Strictly speaking, I'm going to have a Civil Partnership which is not really a marriage," Sherlock replied defiantly.

"Oh, I am working on same sex marriage. Don't worry. Soon you will be able to get married to dear John, properly."

"You're not doing that for me." Sherlock glared at his brother.

"Let's say this provides new motivation," Mycroft parried, holding his brother's gaze.

"Great. Let me know." Sherlock looked annoyed.

John entered the room, having heard the last part of the conversation. Mycroft was the devil in disguise.

"Your coffee, Sherlock."

"Thank you."

"Some more coffee, Mycroft?"

"No, thank you John. I must be off. I will leave your present here. You may open it whenever you feel like it."

"Uhm..OK."

"Congratulations to both of you again. Let's make myself absolutely clear. I don't want to have any misunderstandings about the subject… at all. I am giving you my consent."

"As if I would ask you," Sherlock sneered.

"I am giving it none the less. John needs to know that he is very welcome to the family. You're the right man."

"Uhm…good. Ah, thank you Mycroft", John stammered. That man really got on his nerves.

"Yes, thank you Mycroft," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"I almost forgot…Her majesty and the prime minister send you their best wishes for the forthcoming marriage. I believe you will receive their compliments shortly," Mycroft said. "Well I must be off. Try not to scare John of by stalking him, will you? Bye, Sherlock. Bye, John."

John let out a groan when Mycroft was gone. "Now all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men know about it. Our family and friends, you told me. Not Greater London. Honestly, Sherlock. What was that about?"

"Proving a point undoubtedly," Sherlock replied and looked towards the spot where his brother had been standing a few moments earlier.

"Which point?" John asked uneasily.

"Not sure yet," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"Does he know about the case?"

"I haven't the faintest. He usually doesn't keep track of my cases, you're doing that already… Anyway. He'll do whatever it takes to keep us together."

"Why does he always have to meddle with things?"

"Because he is Mycroft," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Because he is _your_ brother. You two are just the same."

Sherlock smiled mischievously at John. "Well, get engaged to one and you get the other for free."

"Lucky me."

* * *

><p>When they entered the consulting rooms of their therapist later that afternoon, Dr. Stevens gave them a friendly greeting and offered them facing seats. "Let's talk about the days since we last saw each other. You kept a journal to write down the things that happened that you want to go on doing, and you have told each other what you appreciate about one another."<p>

"We had dinner to celebrate our engagement. I liked that. Going out and having fun together," Sherlock started.

"I liked that, too. Sherlock wrote some notes, saying 'I love you'. I like the idea that he made an effort to express himself," John continued.

"I liked last night," Sherlock said, watching John, his face unreadable. He failed to specify what might or might not have happened between them, causing John, who had taken a sip from his water that moment, to cough.

"That sounds very promising. I want you to continue both exercises, the journal and showing your appreciation. Let's move on," Dr. Stevens said smiling. "You mentioned in our first session that you have very heated arguments. I want to focus on changing the way you argue. First of all, how does one of your arguments start?"

"Sherlock's being arrogant - or ignoring social conventions - or just wanting to be right. He can drive me up the wall," John told her, glaring at Sherlock.

"John's being awfully boring or mundane," Sherlock stated with an annoyed expression.

John decided to ignore this comment and concentrated on Dr. Stevens.

"What happens in one of your heated arguments?" she asked.

"I get really mad when we fight. We both yell. I start swearing when we argue and Sherlock makes irritating comments like, "How mature." This makes me madder. Our fights usually end with me getting so angry that I can't even think straight or talk right and I walk away to cool down," John explained to her.

"I shoot the wall," Sherlock replied.

Dr. Stevens might have believed that there was physical abuse involved in their relationship. Fortunately she seemed to think Sherlock just made a bad joke.

John glared at him disapprovingly. "He sits around and keeps sulking until I come back."

"It is both common and normal for couples to have disagreements or conflicts. The important factor is how constructively the conflict is resolved. The way you fight is definitely not good for your relationship. I want to work on improving your conflict management skills. I have some interventions that will help us achieve this goal," Dr. Stevens explained. "John, we discussed your work during the last session. A stressful daily life can influence our way of communicating with each other negatively. How do you feel about your working schedule?"

John sighed. "I'm actually thinking about having a practice of my own. There is one for sale in Kensington and I could take it over with Jackson and Anstruther. One works with me at the surgery; I know the other from the hospital. I feel that it might be the right thing to do. I'm starting to feel discontented at the surgery. I want more." John's eyes flickered towards Sherlock, who didn't look very happy about the development of the conversation.

"You don't have to work there at all. We are making enough money with the consulting business. When did you start thinking about this? Why haven't you told me?" Sherlock asked inquisitively.

"It's not about the money. It's about me," John returned.

"I really do not understand you," Sherlock replied. He stuck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture.

Dr. Stevens fortunately intervened before the discussion developed into an argument. She asked them to move closer towards each other and take each other's hands.

John felt uneasy and shot a quick glance at Sherlock who seemed to feel ill at ease himself. Neither of them said anything, but they moved their chairs closer and took each other's hands silently. John started to feel warm and tried to fix his gaze on a spot behind Sherlock, not looking him in the eyes. Being so close to Sherlock reminded him of the previous night. Looking him in the eyes might have been a very bad idea. He was convinced that he had blushed already and since nothing ever escaped the detective he tried to avoid turning completely red.

She began the exercise by asking Sherlock to allow himself to feel all of the pressures and stress and grief in his life. He struggled with the task. Feelings were not his area and John assumed that he usually stored them safely away in his mind palace.

John felt comfortable enough again to shoot a glance or two at his friend. Sherlock looked quite uncomfortable. Dr. Stevens asked him to imagine just for a minute John starting a practice on his own. John could tell that Sherlock quickly began to feel his increasing anxiety. His hands were getting sweaty.

She asked him to stay with that feeling and to say to John, "I don't want you to have a practice because…" and let the sentence finish itself without thinking of an ending ahead of time.

He said, "I don't want you to have a practice because you will not have enough time for me anymore."

She asked to continue the sentence and he said, "I don't want you to have a practice because you will not have enough time for me anymore and I need you."

She then asked him to hold onto that feeling and finish the sentence, "You will not have enough time for me anymore and …" He immediately exclaimed, "…you will eventually leave me."

She asked him to make that a little more explicit. "You will leave me because…"

"You will leave me because you will find someone who is lovely, nice and charming. Someone who is perfect for you and then you will start to regret us."

Dr. Stevens turned towards John who was taken aback by Sherlock's words. She asked John to imagine a recent time when their relationship had been under particular pressure. Once he had this in mind, she asked him just to keep visualizing that image of him feeling distressed and not to do anything to change it. She asked him to imagine not starting a practice of his own. He told her that that was hard for him and it gave him a sinking feeling in his chest. He still concentrated on avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

She asked him to stay with that feeling and try saying to Sherlock, "If I don't follow my own way…" and let the sentence finish itself. He took a few deep breaths and said, "If I don't follow my own way, I will lose my independence and you will start to find me boring and dull."

She asked him to make that a little more explicit. She suggested saying to Sherlock, "I just can't follow your way all the time, or I will lose my independence and you will start to find me boring and dull."

He said that it felt true to say that.

She then asked him to go even further. "Even if it makes you feel pressured or angry or sad, I just can't follow your way all the time. If I stop showing up for my own life I will lose my independence and…"

"I will lose you in the end," John finished.

Neither of them had had any idea that this was true prior to their session. Despite their preliminary statement that they would never break up and that they were afraid of their problems destroying them, their fears of being abandoned by one another had obviously been hidden somewhere deep down. They were both shocked and confused about the discovery.

Dr. Stevens summarized it on a notecard for them to read each day. She asked them to correct her and make sure that the words they chose were complete true. They ended up settling on: "John is afraid that if he does not maintain an independent life Sherlock will lose interest in him and break up. But this makes Sherlock feel like John is distancing himself from him and their current life, which makes him feel even worse." Dr. Stevens asked them just to recognize that this was true and not to try to change anything immediately.

"I want to summarize what you've learnt about communication today. Criticism, defensiveness, contempt, and blame are destructive to your relationship. Showing your emotions can help you to achieve what you want in your relationship. Don't hold back in showing your partner positive feelings. If you're feeling some negative emotions take a deep breath. Ask yourself what fears lie behind them. Remember to be kind and to choose your words carefully. Reaching for true intimacy requires opening up some part of yourself that is tender and easily hurt. Be willing to take responsibility for your side in a disagreement and apologize for your part. It will take some practice to let this become second nature while arguing with each other. You will need to practice daily," she told them. She gave them a checklist to use during their next argument and advised them to take a break as soon as they started to feel overwhelmed.

"Maybe you want to exchange a hug, now that you've told each other what fear lies behind your argument." She smiled at them reassuringly.

Another awkward moment followed. Both men stared at each other. Wordlessly Sherlock leant forwards and wrapped his arms around John, who was still stunned. He forced himself to lean into the embrace. It wasn't their first embrace for he had hugged him after he returned from the dead – and after he had punched him hard. But this one wasn't joyful; it was tender and shy and suggested a different kind of affection. He felt Sherlock's warmth and smelled his scent. John couldn't help but blush because he caught himself automatically inhaling deeply.

"Constructive conflict resolution promotes emotional intimacy and is an important component in order for couples to have a satisfying sex life. So, you are already doing things to improve the level of sexual satisfaction in your relationship. By improving the way you handle conflict, you are improving your sex lives. How do you feel about being intimate with each other for homework?"

Sherlock agreed. John remained silent and reluctantly disentangled himself from Sherlock's embrace.

"Being intimate does not mean just having sex. It can mean touching, hugging, cuddling, giving and receiving massages, and so on. I'd like for you to incorporate some of these no-sex intimate acts into your day. This will help you with this exercise", she explained and gave them some sort of manual. There seemed to be a manual or checklist for everything.

"I want you to focus on the non-sex acts of intimacy. Later on I want you to plan some free hours to take the time to explore what each other's likes and dislikes are. How do you feel about this homework assignment?"

John forced a smile and told her that he was fine with intimacy. He made a mental note to take some night shifts at the surgery just in case Sherlock really wanted to try any of the exercises. Luckily, John had enough experiences in that area to make up some stories.

"Please try to focus on the fun of being together and being intimate with each other."

* * *

><p>Later that night, John had trouble getting to sleep. He heard the soft and regular breathing of Sherlock beside him but could tell that he wasn't asleep either. John sighed and continued to watch a spot on the ceiling he couldn't really see. "Mary was perfect. She was flawless," he whispered softly." But all I could think of was, that I wanted you back." Sometimes it was easier to say things like this in the dark.<p>

Sherlock didn't respond. Sometimes it was easier to hear them in the dark as well.


	8. The date

**This chapter is edited and betad! Beta: TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much!  
><strong>

**This one is a shorter chapter. Please tell me what you think. Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews. Your support and criticism is very much appreciated. To everyone who has her/his questions about how the plot will develop: I cannot reveal anything of course. Just stay with me until it is finished **

**To everyone who thinks their actions sometimes are out of character: Please keep in mind that the boys stand under great pressure. One of them has to deal with his ex-boyfriend he is indebted to and who reminds him of feelings and emotions he felt back then. (Because I really do not believe that he does not know how to feel; he buried that deep down somewhere to prevent people from hurting him). The other has to deal not only with the emotions of his friend but also of his own (and he is also indebted to his friend). There you have a difficult situation! And I do agree with you it is absolutely hard to stay in character all the time, cause Sherlock is a difficult person. But I try my very best. Please forgive me if it is not always successful. Thank you for liking it anyway! **

Chapter eight

John woke up alone the next morning. It was the first time since their engagement he did not find himself in any compromising position with his friend. They had probably slept entangled again though, but Sherlock had gotten up, a fact both of them chose to keep quiet about. They had been dancing around each other for days now. John wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't sure how he felt about waking up alone. He didn't know what to think about his feelings of insecurity either. A week ago, everything had been simple. They had just been friends. Best friends. Partners in crime. Brothers in arms. Now they were engaged and Greater London, including the Queen and the Government, celebrated their involvement. There was something else on John's mind: A soft voice in his head telling him that it didn't feel as wrong as it should be. He let out a soft groan. There was so much going on between them, and in his head, that all the thinking gave him a headache.

John took a deep breath and got up, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. As much as he would like to, he couldn't stay in bed all day and hide. He had a shift at the surgery and he had to try to get some night shifts – just in case. He tried to follow Sherlock's example, and stored away his thoughts for later analysis.

When he got downstairs after a short shower, he found his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table over one of his chemical experiments. A short glance told him that there were no body parts involved this time. _Thank God._

"Morning, Sherlock."

No response.

John sighed. Apparently his friend was deaf to the world again, concentrating on his experiment.

"Tea?"

No response.

John gave up trying to communicate with Sherlock, took his tea and toast to the living room and started to read the newspaper over breakfast.

Suddenly there was a loud bang and John heard his friend throwing something – probably petri dishes – into the waste bin, uttering curses. The experiment had not gone as planned, obviously. John laid the paper aside, studying his friend, amused. Sherlock stood in the kitchen, bending over the sink, both hands resting on the worktop. He breathed heavily.

"Sherlock, is everything all right?" John asked innocently.

"Fine," Sherlock finally replied. The lie was written all over his face.

John knew him far too well to buy it. Sherlock seemed to be suffering from an internal struggle. He seemed angry and flustered, maybe even confused too. He clearly had something on his mind.

"If you say so," John answered, sighing. He knew that pushing the detective wouldn't work. He would tell him in his own time – or not at all.

"I just made a mistake. The experiment is ruined," Sherlock explained in a strained voice.

John raised his eyebrows, knowing that was just the apparent truth. "That can happen to anybody – even to the best," he replied after a moment. He could tell they were dancing again.

"I am not supposed to make mistakes," he muttered darkly.

That was his whole childhood in a nutshell, John thought bitterly. He didn't believe in Sherlock's claim to be a sociopath anymore. He didn't even believe him to be Aspergerish. John guessed that he just was a person bad things had happened to. So he had built up a fortress. _Mighty, high and hopeless._ Through the years of their acquaintance some of the walls had been cracking and the stones were tumbling slowly. He knew there was a very vulnerable, very human man behind them. Whatever was happening at the moment between them, whatever they were or would become in the future, he knew one thing for sure: he would still give up his life happily to ensure his friend's. He still was the finest man he knew.

"It's fine to make mistakes. You can learn from them and improve yourself," John told him reassuringly. "You're not supposed to be perfect. I told you, perfect is boring." He tried to keep his tone light.

Sherlock let his shoulders slump and the tension slipped away.

"You could do with some tea," John said and went into the kitchen to get him a cup. When he passed his friend, their arms touched lightly. The physical contact sent tingles down John's spine, causing him to blush. His heart skipped a beat, then started to race madly.

Sherlock watched him with curiosity. "Why not?" Sherlock replied with a contented smile and flopped into his armchair, opposite John's.

_He never missed anything, ever._ John took a deep breath, silently cursing himself, and continued to make another cup of tea for both of them. He could only hope that Sherlock didn't draw the wrong conclusions. Being honest with himself, he simply didn't know what the right conclusions would be. Since he knew that it was impossible to avoid physical contact with his friend, he made another mental note to make sure not to look him straight in the eye whenever such a situation occurred. That would not only embarrass him, but make him blush to the roots of his hair.

"Your tea", John said and offered him the second cup, flushing again slightly. _Christ, John, what the hell is wrong with you? Stop it!_

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, a smile playing over his lips again.

"Have you already been to town for your Christmas shopping?" John asked him, changing the subject. He tried to keep his face as innocent and his voice as indifferent as impossible, and he focused on not looking at him directly.

Sherlock kept staring at John, holding his cup of tea in one hand, his second resting on the armrest of his chair. "No," he answered calmly.

"Time is running out, Sherlock. The party is Saturday," John replied, irritated. The man was unbelievable.

Sherlock made an annoyed face. "Don't worry."

"You promised."

"I know I did," Sherlock replied. "I told you not to worry."

"I start worrying the moment you tell me not to," John admitted.

"You have so little trust in me," Sherlock teased him.

"Wonder why…" John answered with a sigh. "Be sure you're home at seven, by the way."

Sherlock looked at him taken aback. "Why?"

"We're going out."

"Where to?"

"That's a surprise, Sherlock," John answered smugly. There was no way, Sherlock could guess where they were going and that pleased John immensely.

However, Sherlock didn't seem to be offended. He seemed to enjoy John's attempts to take the lead in their relationship.

"You are asking me out. Shall I consider this a date?" he asked in a low voice and with a flirtatious tone, leaning slightly forward and looking at John intensely.

Apparently Sherlock had decided that offence would be the best defence in John's case. John wasn't prepared for Sherlock's move and made the mistake of glancing up. He was staring at him. Insinuations were one thing, flirting was another, and it had taken him by surprise. For a minute or so he could only stare at him like an idiot.

"Well", John said after a moment, flushing, "Apply your methods. In the meantime, I am going to work."

He quickly got up and fled to his room where he leaned his forehead against the closed door. _Great_, he thought. He had just been flirting with Sherlock Holmes. _With him, not at him. Bloody hell. This needs to stop. _Unfortunately, while his mind seemed to agree with him, his body clearly disagreed.

* * *

><p>When he returned from the surgery, he took a quick shower. Sherlock had not yet come back from wherever he'd gone. At work he had talked to Sarah about taking over some night shifts. However, his colleagues insisted that he kept to the day shifts for the time being, since he was recently engaged and would want to spend some more time with his fiancé. They suggested he might want to make the best of the nights. It seemed that the odds were stacked against him.<p>

He stepped out of the bathroom and took a dark blue suit out of his closet. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't wear suits very often. There was no need to do so. Today however would be one of the rare occasions.

"John." Sherlock's voice bellowed through the flat.

John finished his dressing and went downstairs. "Sherlock." John gave him a friendly greeting.

"You're wearing a suit."

"You're stating the obvious," John teased him. He knew that the detective didn't like to be imitated.

However Sherlock didn't react to John's statement. "I've never seen you wearing that one before."

"No. It's new. It's for Bill Murray's wedding next year. And I needed a new suit anyway." He had bought it at the sales. Since he would not be wearing the suit very often he decided to save some money on it.

"It fits you well," Sherlock admitted, grinning.

"Thanks," he replied. _Please, give me a break, mate._

"Where are we going, John?" Sherlock asked him eagerly. Apparently, he was still in the dark.

"Don't be impatient!" John laughed. "We're going to take the Tube."

Sherlock made a face. "Tube?"

"Yeah. We wouldn't want you to guess too soon, would we?" John wound him up.

Sherlock pouted.

"Come on, Gorgeous," John chuckled. "We don't want to be late."

On the way to the tube, John carefully avoided touching Sherlock at all. In the tube, however, things were different. The tube was crowded and they stood together with their chests pressed close. John felt his own heart beating fast again. Thankfully, he didn't blush this time since there were so many people around, bumping into them, but he was still very much aware of Sherlock's warmth and his scent. He suppressed the urge to inhale deeply. It was impossible for John to tell how Sherlock felt about their physical closeness since each of them had cocked his head to a different side and both were looking in opposite directions. Once or twice he had the feeling that his friend was even moving closer, but under the circumstances it could have been coincidence. John was relieved when they finally reached their destination. He felt confused and the confusion drove him mad.

"High Street? Interesting," Sherlock stated when they got off.

"Make an educated guess."

"I never guess."

"Deduce me!" John blurted out unthinkingly. "I mean deduce it, then." _Not me, please. Heaven forbid. _

"Royal Albert Hall."

"They are playing Bach. I thought we could use a break and I know that you like Bach." As long as John could have a break from his confusion he didn't mind whether it was Bach, Mozart or whatever.

"That's….nice. I appreciate that, John." Sherlock said excitedly and added, "Very much."

"Good. I'm glad you like it. See it as an early Christmas present," John replied cheerfully. He was delighted that he could give him a treat by inviting him to the concert. He sensed that Sherlock was himself stressed by the sudden appearance of his ex-boyfriend – or whatever he should call Victor Trevor – and deserved a break, too.

Sherlock was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but also a very talented composer. All the evening he sat in the stalls, wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music. His gently smiling face and his dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Sherlock the relentless, keen-witted sleuth, as it was possible to conceive. John often had wondered whether his extreme exactness and astuteness represented the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally overcame him. The swing of Sherlock's nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy. John knew that Sherlock was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and black-letter editions. Then the thrill of the chase would suddenly come upon him and his brilliant reasoning power would rise to a level, which caused the people around him to be stricken with awe. When John saw him that evening so enwrapped in the music at the Royal Albert Hall he felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. He himself started to feel the thrill of excitement, too, as he watched his friend.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" John asked him as they emerged, inhaling the cold December air.

"Very much," Sherlock grinned, wrapping his coat tighter around him.

"I'm glad to hear it," John replied and kept his eyes down on the street, which was covered in snow.

"I also enjoyed your company," Sherlock added mischievously.

That was unexpected. The break was over. The game was on again, apparently. "I'm glad to hear it," John replied because he couldn't think of anything else to say. At least he remembered to avoid Sherlock's gaze.

"I'll have to think about an adequate present for you."

Somehow that caused John to worry. "I can hardly wait", John answered, not able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice entirely. If Sherlock noticed, he didn't let it show.

"Did you enjoy yourself, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I did," John admitted.

"I'm glad to hear it," Sherlock said, still grinning.

"I also enjoyed your company," John finally added before he could stop himself. He tried to ignore the sudden trembling in his stomach and wondered whether he had lost his mind.

"I'm glad to hear it," Sherlock said with a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I'm glad that you're glad," John replied, sighing. They tended to have confusing conversations lately.

* * *

><p>A tube ride and two cups of tea later, they were lying next to each other in John's bedroom. He tried to position himself as far away from Sherlock as possible which caused him to lie at a very uncomfortable angle. He knew he would turn around as soon as he was asleep, probably waking up to find the two of them entwined with each other again. Sherlock's scent proved a bigger problem to deal with since he could hardly stop breathing. And he had to confess that he liked the smell. A lot. He asked himself silently, what was wrong with him. He never thought about the touch or the scent of his flat mate before. He definitely had too much time for his mind to wander, and, since the night shifts were no longer an option, he could only hope they would go to Aldershot before long, and he could keep himself busy with the case.<p>

"John?" Sherlock asked low voiced.

John held his breath. "Yes?"

"I think I should inform you that I applied my methods as you suggested this morning."

_Great._

The silence dragged on. There was no need to urge the detective to share his deduction. John knew what was about to come.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before stating matter-of-factly, "I've decided to consider this evening a date."

What John still didn't know was how much was real and how much was part of the game.

What he did know for sure was that he had to get rid of any mistletoe that showed up around the flat before Saturday.


	9. Christmas Party

**This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. Thanks again! All mistakes are mine.  
><strong>

**Again, thank you for your kind support! You make my day! Please review! I appreciate it very much. Let me know what you think.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter nine<span>

"Don't just stand there gaping, help me," John ranted at his friend, standing on a ladder in front of the kitchen cupboards, having managed to get himself entangled in some fairy lights. It was Saturday – the dreaded Saturday as John secretly called it. It was the day that family and friends would come to their annual Christmas party – this year halfway through December since they would be in Aldershot shortly – to celebrate not only Christmas but also their glorious engagement. Therefore, it was about time to put up some Christmas decorations.

"I could….but I won't," Sherlock replied with a wide hand gesture. "It's all your own fault. You don't have to do any of this. Besides it's much more fun to watch you." Sherlock lay flat on the carpet by the fireplace, wearing his suit pants and his purple shirt under his blue dressing gown. His head rested against his armchair, and he watched John in amusement. He had abandoned his attempt to read a book. "You could join me here, you know. It's cosy," he smiled playfully.

John looked at him just for a fraction of a second. He immediately regretted it. His mind was going blank, his pulse quickening. A strange feeling started to spread in his stomach, and he suddenly got all weak at the knees. His body had decided to start living its own life.

_This could not be happening._

He dropped his eyes at once and tried to focus on disentangling himself. He slowly regained his balance. _Really, you're not fourteen anymore, John._ He didn't want to think about what that might be implying or not. At least, he didn't blush this time.

"We've been through this. You'll have to grin and bear it," John replied dryly.

"Proper gifts and being nice. No one said anything about tedious decorations. The flat already is a mess with all these stupid balloons and garlands. Why would anyone want to add even more decorations?" Sherlock grimaced.

"It's Christmas, Sherlock. Time for fairy lights and candles and Christmas trees. It's nice, homelike," John explained. "Don't pretend that you don't like it. I know you better. Now, be a dear and help me."

"It always is homelike. I don't need that stuff to make it more homelike. Is this about sentiment?" Sherlock asked dubiously, knitting his brows.

"Sentiment, yes," John admitted. "Do it for my sake. It is very important to me."

Sherlock let out an audible sigh and remained silent for some time, apparently thinking it through. Just when John started to draw his attention towards putting up the fairy lights again, Sherlock addressed him again. "You still could join me down here, John. It really is snug," he invited him, smiling a crooked smile.

_Here we go again!_

Given the fact that Sherlock didn't have much experience in flirting, John had to confess that he had made considerable progress. At the speed of light. He could hardly keep up.

"Someone has to do the work, Sherlock, since you refuse," John replied, trying to ignore the insinuations of his friend.

"You could join me first and I might be persuaded to help you afterwards," Sherlock said grinning. There was evident curiosity in his expression.

Unintentionally, John broke into a fleeting smile, "You could help me first and I might be persuaded to join you afterwards."

_Great goodness, John, of all the things you could come up with, you choose to play along. _It was like playing chess on a rollercoaster, John thought. On the other hand, maybe offence was the best defence after all.

However, John wasn't prepared for Sherlock to actually give in.

"Well," Sherlock sighed dramatically and stood up slowly, "you've got me on my knees. I am at your disposal." Every movement was a dramatic gesture of his objection to the whole idea of Christmas decorations in the house.

"Your help is very much appreciated," John replied, taken aback.

"We could take Mrs. Hudson's decorations down," Sherlock asked hopefully.

"People expect us to celebrate the engagement with them, Sherlock. This is the least painful way, believe me," John answered, not completely convinced himself. He would rather take them down, too.

"I got rid of Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe, though," Sherlock admitted while lending John a hand with the lights.

John nodded approvingly, carefully avoiding looking down. He tried very hard not to be aware of Sherlock, standing dangerously close, again. The physical closeness made him self-conscious. "Good. I'll bet Harry will bring some, too. Make sure it disappears quietly."

"Understood."

"You've done your shopping?"

"Yes", Sherlock told him. "But I will give your present to you on Christmas day if you don't mind."

"No, that's fine."

"You know you are asking for trouble by inviting my brother to the party," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"You won't quarrel today," John warned him.

"I'll be on my best behaviour," Sherlock replied and added after a moment, "for you."

"I appreciate that," John said and added mischievously, "if you are a good boy today, you may take down the balloons and garlands tonight. Mr. Hudson is going to visit her sister for a few days."

"Sounds promising," Sherlock replied chuckling.

They went on working together silently, John humming Christmas songs to himself. Not one grumble escaped Sherlock's lips.

"Ouch," John suddenly cried, examining his left hand where drops of blood were seeping from a new wound. "I cut myself." He carefully climbed down the ladder.

"No, please, let me help you," Sherlock quickly said. He took John's hand in his own and led him to the kitchen sink. He bathed the wound with clear water, disinfected it, and applied a plaster to the wound, before fluttering a kiss onto John's hand.

When their skin touched, it felt as if an electric current had passed through them. John stiffened. Anyhow, neither of them let go.

"It will get better soon," Sherlock explained in a low voice. "My mother always did this when I was young and got injured." He watched John with a concerned look. "Well, I got injured a lot," he continued, whispering.

Their eyes met.

John remained silent. His mind went blank again. Incoherent words formed in his thoughts but he couldn't form any sentence that made sense. He kept staring at Sherlock, who met his gaze. He examined the face which he knew so well. There was curiosity again, and anxiety. There was also something else. A fraction of the emotion he only saw when his friend was on the edge of boredom, in want of a new case. Some sort of longing, more than a glimmer now. He saw that it was mixed up with the rare sight of insecurity. John was mesmerized by the soft look of the usually austere grey-blue eyes. A subconscious part of his mind recognized the soft feeling of a thumb, carefully caressing his hand and the distance closing between them. Another part registered the uneven pounding of his heart and the trembling feeling in his stomach. However, he couldn't move. He was lost in the fascinating sight.

A part of him was disconcerted to realize that they were leaning towards each other unconsciously - or maybe not as unconsciously as John was trying to tell himself. However, there was still the voice in his head, telling him he felt more comfortable with the situation than he had expected to. In fact, he liked it more than he should. Now Sherlock was close enough for John to catch his scent. He could smell Sherlock's eau de toilette, which he liked, and he could smell Sherlock, which he liked too. He admitted weakly to himself that this wasn't helpful - at all.

They were mere inches away from each other, now. Sherlock's grip on John's hand was firm, as if he were afraid John might run away from it. Funny enough, he couldn't , even if he wanted to, because his legs wouldn't obey. So he just stood there, in apprehension of the things that were about to come.

Sherlock's face was just coming dangerously close, when someone rang at the door.

_Saved by the bell._

Sherlock angrily cursed at the unknown intruder as he turned away and walked towards the door.

"Victor," he welcomed their guest a little more warmly than necessary, apparently having forgotten the fact that he had wished him far away just a few moments ago.

It took John by surprise, how much that really bothered him. John was starting to have a faint suspicion where this was heading but he told his subconscious to shut up, once more.

"Hi, Sherlock," Victor replied sweetly.

_Hi, Sherlock_. One doesn't say "hi" to him. He wasn't the "hi"' type.

"Hi, John. Nice to see you again."

"Victor," John nodded. At least he had "hi-d" them both.

"Please, come in," Sherlock invited him, all ease and friendliness. "Take a seat."

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Victor apologised. "It won't take long."

Sherlock waved towards one of the armchairs, offering Victor Trevor a seat. "Forgive the mess. John is decorating for Christmas."

"Not only for Christmas, I see," Victor responded, smiling one of his enchanting smiles.

"Our landlady surprised us with the decorations. She overdid it a bit," John replied. "She meant well." He could hear that his voice sounded strained, reserved. UnJohnlike.

He saw Sherlock pucker up his lips in a smile. _He had noticed._ John made a mental note to try to remember he was dealing with Sherlock Holmes and to be a bit less obvious next time. The detective was quickly turning his world upside down.

"Would you care for some coffee?" John managed to say less coolly.

"No, no," Victor said. "I'll be gone in a minute. Please, don't trouble yourself."

"How can I help you, Victor?" Sherlock asked interested, taking the armchair opposite.

"I visited David today. He had asked his secretary to gather some information about the staff in Aldershot for your investigation. I have a set of documents here for you. She can be trusted." Victor looked at Sherlock intensely. "We both have complete faith in you."

There was an undeniable tension between the two. _An old flame never dies_, John thought instinctively. On the surface they were well suited to each other. He couldn't deny that they looked pretty together. His stomach tightened. The sight of them gave him a pang of … something.

"I will do what I can, Victor," Sherlock replied reassuringly. "Don't worry." He chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

"I don't. I put my trust in you," Victor said. "It really is good to see you again, you know."

Sherlock didn't respond. His face was unreadable.

"Well, I better be off. I have to bring David some of his stuff to keep him from boredom," he told them, slowly standing up, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "I've managed to get you on the list for Aldershot. The workshop will take place next weekend, from Friday till Monday. If you will call Dr. Stevens to confirm, everything will be settled."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied, pleased.

"See you soon," Victor said standing in the doorway, casting one more look at Sherlock before finally turning around and leaving the flat.

Sherlock turned around, facing John. "Now, where were we?"

"Kitchen. Christmas decorations," John replied reluctantly.

"Ah, yes indeed." Sherlock gave him a meaningful look.

"Where has the time gone?" John muttered under his breath. "You better hurry. Change your clothes or wrap the presents or whatever you still have to do. It's late. Off you go." The discontent in his voice was poorly disguised.

Sherlock studied him intensely. "You're angry."

"Good deduction." John held his gaze. He was consumed by a sudden anger. This time he was able to block his subconscious out.

"Is this about the kitchen thing?" Sherlock asked warily.

John refused to answer.

"Don't tell me this is about Victor?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He watched John closely.

John remained silent.

"Silence means consent," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Please, I told you he's over and done with."

"Well, you better tell _him _then, before he devours you alive," John replied sharply and continued before Sherlock could reply, "Practise what you preach! I told you I'm not blind."

"Obviously you are," Sherlock replied stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest.

John mirrored Sherlock's body language, crossing his arms tightly around his chest. "Oh, and the next time you plan on jumping me, please warn me beforehand."

"If I remember correctly, you didn't object," Sherlock riposted defiantly. "Jealousy is such a low feeling, John."

"How would you know? Feelings are not really your area, are they?" John narrowed his eyes. "The world doesn't revolve around you, you know."

"No," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, "it revolves around the sun. Obviously."

"Arrogant git," John hissed and stormed out of the living room, leaving the sulking detective behind.

* * *

><p>"Yoohoo, anyone at home?" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe, when John came downstairs – more or less cooled down.<p>

He had taken a very long shower and spent some time listening to music on his laptop afterwards. He felt confident enough again to look Sherlock in the eye without having to fight the urge to punch him. Although he had to confess that he might feel relieved afterwards.

"Having a little domestic again?" she asked, smiling knowingly. "It's not the end of the world, you know. It keeps the fire burning."

John looked at Sherlock who was wearing one of his perfectly tailored dark suits, wearing a dark blue shirt which matched his eyes perfectly, of course. Sherlock met his gaze, obviously examining John himself. He had chosen dark blue jeans and a light grey V-knit above a white shirt. Sherlock nodded approvingly.

"Fire is not the problem, you know," John muttered more to himself than to the landlady.

"Well, well," she mumbled. "You are both a feast for the eyes, boys."

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. "Finished your packing? Your sister will be glad to see you."

John had to bite his lip to hide his smile. Either Sherlock had decided to honour the bargain they made with each other, or he was looking forward to taking down her hideous decorations.

"You are so sweet, sunshine. Yes, I will leave first thing in the morning."

Sherlock's eyes glinted unmistakably with excitement.

"I've brought you some homemade jam and various sorts of tea," she continued, "It's always so difficult to get you presents. Especially finding something for you, Sherlock. But I know you like my jam."

Sherlock straightened up, feigning a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That's very nice of you."

"I haven't brought anything for the engagement, though. I thought you wouldn't want to make a great fuss about it. I thought it might be nice to have dinner together when I get back."

"That would be lovely. You've done enough already," John replied with a wide hand gesture, putting on a happy face.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, sighing almost inaudibly. "Well, we have a little present for you. I hope you will like it."

"A new scarf," she beamed. "I love it."

"I heard you complaining last week that you hadn't got a suitable scarf to meet the weather in Scotland," Sherlock explained.

"How very thoughtful of you, Sherlock." She kissed him on the cheek.

"Can I offer you anything?" Sherlock asked.

"A glass of wine would be lovely, dear," she said smiling, taking a seat in John's armchair in front of the fireplace where the fire was burning silently.

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen to get some more glasses. "Prince Charming, are we?" John jibed at him, frowning.

Sherlock observed him intensely. "Don't turn a blind eye any longer, John," he said with a serious face. "You will have to have some faith in me," he added in a severe voice, unsmiling. Sherlock hadn't made a request. His voice had been demanding, challenging John to have implicit confidence and implicit faith. Unreserved, unconditional, and absolute.

John stared back, struggling to think clearly. Apparently he wasn't angry enough anymore to be immune to his charm.

Sherlock nodded curtly, averting his gaze from John and leaving for the living room again.

_Silence means consent, _John thought silently sighing. Considering it, John had to admit that faith wasn't the problem either.

"Ah, dear brother," Sherlock cried out loud. John could tell from where he was that Sherlock was faking a smile.

"Sherlock," Mycroft replied gracefully. "How very kind of you to invite me."

John decided to intervene immediately before things could get out of hand and returned quickly to the living room himself.

"John, dear," Mycroft greeted him with a hammy smile.

"Mycroft. Nice of you to join us."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world," Mycroft answered, still smiling ominously. "When I visited you the last time I wasn't able to give you my engagement present. I am glad I can make up for it now." Mycroft reached into his pocket, his smile never fading, and presented them with an envelope.

John swallowed hard, a foreboding feeling spreading in his stomach. "You take it", John managed to say, not looking at Sherlock who took the envelope grumbling and opened it.

"What do you think?" Mycroft asked cheerfully.

Instinctively John grabbed Sherlock's free hand, squeezing it and telling him silently "Whatever it is, say thank you and leave it." John heard a strained "thank you", imagining Sherlock with an annoyed face combined with the most fake smile he was able to produce. John remained silent, his smile probably as fake as his friend's.

"You're welcome."

"We got you another umbrella," Sherlock blurted out, still forcing himself to smile.

Mycroft seemed to be at a loss what to make of it. "How kind of you," he replied frowning, studying the two of them.

"Please, help yourself," John told him, directing Mycroft towards the table with drinks.

"How bad is it?" John asked Sherlock curiously, forgetting for a moment that he was still supposed to be angry.

"A long weekend off."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"In Scotland. On a small Island. Just the two of us. In the middle of nowhere, in a small house, probably luxuriously, but with absolutely nothing to do at all."

"Okay. Good point." John made a face. Apparently that was Mycroft's idea of humour.

A short distance away Mycroft started a lively conversation with their landlady.

"They are a bit short of domestic bliss at the moment," Mrs. Hudson explained, carefully whispering to Mycroft but still audibly enough for John to hear.

"They bicker constantly," Mycroft replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You know the saying: "The quarrel of lovers is the renewal of love"."

Both of them started to laugh heartily.

John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. A moment later he heard his sister.

"Hi, John," she greeted them happily smiling. "Look what I've brought."

Mistletoe.

"Hi, Sherlock," she pecked him on the cheek, before he could react. "It's so good to see you." She giggled. "The way you two behave is so sweet. If I didn't know any better I would think you just fell in love with each other."

It dawned on John too late, that he hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand, which was burning in his own now. He took it away quickly.

"Let me take care of the mistletoe, Harriet," Sherlock replied with an enchanting smile. She gave it to him, still giggling. He pressed his jaws together and went into the kitchen to dispose of it.

"Harry," John hissed. "There is no way I am going to kiss him in front of any of you. We're not some kind of amusement attraction."

"You'll kiss at the wedding." Harry obviously couldn't stop giggling.

John looked at her seriously. "You will not be there if you continue to behave like this."

She watched him with curiosity and apparently had a hard time suppressing her laughter.

"Sherlock's brother is here. Why don't you introduce yourself?" John offered. She deserved some quality time with Mycroft, and he with her.

Sherlock returned quickly from the kitchen, nodding to John. "It disappeared."

"Good," John replied relieved. "I really don't know which of our siblings is worse."

"I think I win," Sherlock answered dryly, watching both of them from a distance.

"Yeah, I think you do," John agreed, smiling despite himself.

The party continued and it was surprisingly quiet and normal. Mycroft and Harry annoyed each other continuously and Sherlock had trouble containing his joy. Nevertheless, he kept his promise and was polite and kindly at all times. He spent two hours having an animated conversation with Lestrade, who joined them later in the evening. He talked about cases and colleagues, teasing him once or twice about his strained relationship with Tobias Gregson. Sherlock's interference at Kensington Gardens had forced the two inspectors to cooperate, to their great dismay. Sherlock had even tried to invite Gregson too, but unfortunately it turned out he had to work that evening. Afterwards, John watched Lestrade spend a troublesome hour talking to Mycroft who probably took the piss out of him after his encounter with Harriet. All in all, it had been fun. Sherlock probably had laughed more tonight than he had in all the time they had spent together.

That night Sherlock didn't come to bed with John immediately and John didn't summon him. He was playing the violin again. John listened to his mournful and thoughtful music. He guessed that the songs were the product of Sherlock's own composition because he had never heard any of them before. He desperately wanted to close the distance between them but was afraid of what he might find if he did. He had apologized to him earlier that evening over Victor Trevor. Anyhow, neither of them had mentioned the kitchen incident. _Fear_, he thought, wondering. _Fear actually was a problem._


	10. Distraction

**This chapter is edited and betad. We are heading towards Aldershot shortly. Thanks to anyone who reads and reviews! Meanwhile, poor John is heading towards an identity crisis. Enjoy!**

**Beta: TeapotInATempest. Thanks again!  
><strong>

Chapter ten

John woke up early next morning, stretching his arms sleepily. His subconscious registered immediately that something was different, even before he opened his eyes. The space next to him was not only empty, it seemed that Sherlock had not slept there at all. The sheets were untouched. He brought himself into a sitting position, ruffling his hair automatically. Suddenly memories came back vividly and he wasn't sleepy anymore.

John remembered their nasty argument with shame. This time it had been entirely his fault. Well, maybe not entirely his fault, but one had to say to Sherlock's defence that he was skating on thin ice when it came to emotions. Victor Trevor wasn't to blame either. He was a nice man who happened to feel still something for Sherlock – he liked him at the very least. John couldn't blame him for that - as long as he kept his hands to himself. John still was partially in denial about the jealousy thing. Thinking about the two of them together however, he felt his stomach tightening immediately. It was simply childish. However he didn't know what to call it either. He couldn't imagine anyone getting off with Sherlock and taking his place in Baker Street. His heart instantaneously started spluttering hyperactively. He didn't know what to make of it.

The voice in his head kept arguing that deep down John knew that Victor Trevor only was the tip of the iceberg. The kitchen incident remained unmentioned and unresolved. The memory wasn't only unpleasant. The mere thought of it caused John to blush. He had a queasy that he tried to quash. Naturally that didn't work, and the voice in his head said, "I told you so." He told the voice to shut up.

He took a few deep breaths and gradually felt easier. John tried to persuade himself that all of it was due to the pressure of the case. With the case solved, the situation would soon calm.

When he went downstairs, he found Sherlock lying on the couch, his fingertips pressing against each other under his chin. The sight of him didn't help make the queasy feeling away.

"You didn't sleep upstairs," he said, just to say something.

"I fell asleep on the couch. Didn't want to wake you up," Sherlock replied without looking up. "I was thinking."

The doctor in him took over. "You can't sleep on the couch. It's not good. I don't mind being woken up."

"If you insist."

"I do." John replied and added, "You are thinking now." _And I just invited him to my bed. Again._

"Yes. MacDonald called this morning for a case. It really was rather simple. I am wondering, where does the Yard get all the idiots?" Sherlock complained.

John watched him in disbelief. "It's six thirty in the morning and you've already solved a case?"

"While you were sleeping. I didn't even need to leave the house."

"Well," John replied, arching his brows. "Well done, I guess."

"I told you it was nothing. It was far below my capabilities," Sherlock explained, irritated.

Sulking detective, John mentally noted.

"Sorry to hear it was disappointing," John sighed purposely.

Sherlock pouted. "Are you making fun of me?"

John shook his head, chuckling. "No. You're great but you're … not exactly modest."

"Who cares about modest?" Sherlock tried to assume an air of importance but it looked rather funny.

John rolled his eyes in response, suppressing a smile. "Well, the Yard's got you, after all."

"That's right. They can count themselves lucky. Otherwise, every criminal in Great Britain would take advantage of them."

"Can't argue with that," John agreed willingly. First, it was true, and second, he didn't want to argue about Sherlock's, at times inflated, ego. He would lose anyway.

Sherlock watched John closely and sat up. "Are you feeling alright today?" he asked innocently, changing the subject.

"Err….Sherlock look," John continued nervously, "about yesterday. I really am very, very sorry for everything I said. I didn't mean it." He carefully did not look at him.

"You already apologized. No need to repeat yourself."

"I felt I needed to say it again."

"Forget it. You're forgiven." Sherlock waved John's interjection away. "Victor might have been flirting after all. I can hardly tell the difference."

"Just forget it, Sherlock. It's not his fault at all."

"Well, I will make it quite clear to him one way or the other that our relationship is…" Sherlock paused, giving John another meaningful look. "Exclusive," he added hesitantly.

"Uhm…. Exclusive. Good. Right." John managed somewhat perplexedly. He made the mistake of looking up. Somehow he wasn't learning from his mistakes. His heart was doing its dance again.

"Unless you want an open relationship, of course." Sherlock looked as though he was ill. "I mean we have to tell people something, in case someone asks."

"No," John replied, still looking confused. "Exclusive is fine…I think."

Were they really having this conversation? It was only hypothetical, of course, John told himself. It felt different, though. Like a vow. _And forsaking all others….._He coughed to prevent himself from starting to giggle hysterically. He was definitely going mad.

Sherlock apparently was relieved to hear that. "Good. Another point. Did you speak to your sister about Christmas yesterday?" he asked quietly. He almost seemed shy.

"I thought I might stay at home this year, you know. Nice and quiet. After all, that is what people would expect us to do." All John could do was keep staring at him like an idiot, just as he did before. It was pathetic that he had such an influence on him, lately, but he couldn't help it.

"I'd like that," Sherlock admitted, giving a consenting smile.

"Unless you would rather be with your brother, of course," John continued, smiling back playfully.

Sherlock intensified his gaze. "When hell freezes over," Sherlock replied darkly, removing a curl of hair from of his face.

John was distracted by the movement for a moment, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the curly hair himself. He looked away and banished the thought from his mind before he could lose himself in Sherlock's features again, or worse, do something he might - or might not - regret afterwards.

"That's settled then," John stated. "By the way, you remembered the solar system, yesterday." John couldn't stifle a laugh. It eased the tension for a moment.

"Your fault," Sherlock responded, attempting to a serious espression, but failing altogether. He burst into a hearty laugh. "You always have to remind me about it."

"You're welcome," John answered impishly. "And thanks for honouring our bargain, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face was unreadable. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, John."

John nodded. "Yeah. You?"

"It could have been worse", Sherlock admitted tentatively. "It's fine as long as you are there."

An awkward silence fell.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "Would you care for a walk after breakfast? The streets are covered in snow. It's still calm outside."

"You hate peaceful," John commented, bewildered.

Sherlock shrugged. "I am currently investigating two cases. I can stand 'peaceful' for the moment."

John wasn't so sure about the offer. Sherlock had not yet quite abandoned the flirting mode. On the other hand, John wasn't a coward. After all, practicing had been a part of the bargain. "Well, in that case … I'm coming."

After finishing breakfast, they were walked to Hyde Park. At first they had an animated conversation about the party. John, however, lost the thread of the conversation when Sherlock decided to take his hand again. Apparently, he wasn't letting him off the hook. The detective was holding John's hand in a firm grip as he had done the day before, caressing it again with his thumb. John's mind was captivated by the markedly mixed feelings he was experiencing. He tried to take his blank mind and the spreading warmth calmly. John half-heartedly accepted his trembling stomach without trying to read anything into it – just letting it be – for the time being. Meanwhile, Sherlock rattled on about cases and other things.

"John, are you listening to me?"

"Only with half of my brain," he replied honestly.

"That's rude!" Sherlock cried, pretending to be outraged by John's answer.

"Sorry, but it's not entirely my fault." John kept his gaze down.

"Whose is it then?" Sherlock asked, obviously puzzled by John's answer.

"Yours."

"Mine?"

"You're distracting me."

"Distracting you?"

"Yes, from listening to you."

"How would I do that?"

John didn't reply. He didn't need to. He could literally hear Sherlock think. When the message sank in, the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. John registered that he didn't remove his hand, but strengthened his grip instead, before continuing his monologue.

_Smart move._

He wished he could deduce his friend the way Sherlock deduced him. He was doing it on purpose, John was sure of that. However, he remained in the dark about whether it was all a game to Sherlock or not. And if it wasn't a game, what was it then? And what was it to John?

To make matters worse, John couldn't deny that an overwhelming desire was awakening in his heart that was dreadful and wonderful at the same time. Most of all it was compelling. He felt a yearning to be near his friend which was simply mind-blowing – although he wouldn't admit that to his face. Was he really following this path – not only with a man but with Sherlock Holmes of all men?

The voice in his head told him that he did see this coming. A part of him secretly acknowledged that, another part was still in denial. This time, he didn't know how to respond.


	11. The Arrival at Aldershot

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><strong>

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><p><span>Chapter eleven<span>

John was relieved when Friday arrived and they were boarding the train. After their walk in the park they had been holding hands repeatedly. Sherlock always had chosen moments which made it impossible for John to duck out of it. Since neither of them was speaking about it, the matter remained unsolved. They kept dancing. John had to admit that he was getting used to it, slowly. Holding hands wasn't so bad, he told himself. It was weird for friends to do so but it didn't necessarily have to mean anything, at all. Sadly, he couldn't ignore the fact that his heart never failed to start spluttering when they were touching. He could only look Sherlock in the eye without blushing as long as the detective wasn't exploring the flirting area with him. Meanwhile, John was still enmeshed in an inner struggle. He took turns telling the voice in his head to shut up and looking for a dialog with it. The kitchen incident however hadn't repeated itself so far.

They've had the carriage to themselves save for an immense litter of papers which Sherlock had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until they were past Weybridge. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

John looked at him, frowning.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Making yourself at home?"

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers."

John left the subject for what it was. Resistance was futile.

"I'm glad you came with me. Local aid is either worthless or biased." Sherlock changed his seat and sat down next to John.

_Oh God._

"Not comfortable over there?" John tried to sound normal, not panic-stricken. Even to himself his voice sounded strained.

"I have to think."

"And that's not possible there?"

"I beg you won't speak to me for the next thirty minutes." Sherlock ignored John's wide eyes and curled himself up next to him, resting his head on John's shoulder and closing his eyes.

His pulse quickened.

John sighed and looked out of the window, trying to ignore the warmth that spread from Sherlock's body and the scent that reached his nostrils which made him automatically inhale more deeply. He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice any of that. Deep inside, he knew it was an idle hope. Sherlock Homes always saw everything and never missed any detail …ever…at all.

"Stop it, John."

"What? I am not doing anything."

"You are thinking. It is distracting."

John shook his head in disbelief. "I am not gracing that with an answer."

Sherlock smiled faintly. His eyes remained closed.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence.

A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for them upon the platform. In spite of the light brown coat and light jeans, John had no difficulty in recognizing the man as a member of the police. Probably DI Davies, since Lestrade informed him of their arrival.

"Look, who we have here. Holmes, the meddler and his side kick."

Sherlock smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody."

His smile broadened.

"The Lestrade Jack-in-office!"

Sherlock chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining."

"You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he replied. "The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse the Trevor gentleman. He has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told him that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done."

"I am afraid he doesn't share your opinion," Sherlock responded. "Neither do I."

"No idea why Lestrade sent you. The culprit is already arrested."

"What's your motive?"

"Money of course. The blackmailing is pretty obvious."

Sherlock smiled Davies answer away. "David Jones is a man with a good income. He is neither a rich man nor is he stupid. He wouldn't be so daft as to kill someone in his own Clinic. No, no, no. Love is a much stronger motivator."

"You think he had an affair?" Davies asked dumb founded.

"No. This whole case has absolutely nothing to do with him. He is not the man you're looking for", Sherlock exclaimed, being irritated.

"You are wrong! You're wasting your time, Holmes."

"No, you're wasting yours. I have given you the chance. You work your own method, and I shall work mine." Sherlock nodded his head curtly and left the fuming detective behind. John hurried to follow him with the luggage.

"He's the greatest idiot of all. He makes Macdonald look like a genius," Sherlock ridiculed when he hailed a cab to the Aldershot Clinic. Fortunately, there were a few of them in front of the station.

"I will destroy his theory by means which he is obviously incapable of employing, or even of understanding. He is an absolute imbecile. His only one positive virtue is that he is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Unfortunately, he has gotten his claws upon the wrong man." His expression darkened. "I will chew him up."

"I'm sure you will," John replied and climbed into the taxi after Sherlock.

"You're not telling me off," Sherlock stated, smirking.

John shrugged his shoulders. "No, you're quite right. He's an imbecile," he replied dryly. "I had to fight the urge to chin him."

"Why's that?" Sherlock teased him.

"He insulted you."

"And you don't like me to be insulted."

"You know I don't like that." It didn't hurt John to admit that since it wasn't exactly a secret. He had chinned the chief superintendent before for insulting Sherlock as a weirdo. "He's as thick as two short planks," he made sport of the detective inspector.

They couldn't stop laughing for several minutes, blowing off steam. The cabbie observed them suspiciously, apparently having his own thoughts of the matter.

When they arrived at the location of the marriage education workshop, they were received by an over conscientious reception lady who was smiling an artificial smile. Sherlock decided to treat the paperwork alone and told John to wait for him in the hall. The Clinic was huge and Victor Trevor apparently had forgotten to tell them that it was meant to be for the rich and famous because there was luxury in everything. It was situated in a Georgian villa with extensive grounds. Inside, the floor and the staircase were made of white marble. The expensive interior was from the original period – at least it looked it – and was rather delicate. It was too much for John's taste. He liked it simple and homelike. Baker Street-like.

John could see from the distance that Sherlock became agitated and got involved in an argument at the reception desk. He obviously had gotten irritated and deduced a thing or two about her. John remained calm and only shook his head.

"He's your boyfriend?"

John turned around to see a young woman in her thirties, reaching out a hand to him.

"I'm Anne."

He shook hands with her. "John. No, he is my fiancé actually." _Yeah, because I am mad._

She stared at him in disbelief.

"Yeah, I know. Charming isn't he?"

"I'm not one to judge you. I am here because I have my own problems." She smiled apologetically. "You're taking the Smiths' place."

"Yes we do. I heard what happened. Must have been awful," John answered.

"Yes, terrible. No one heard anything that night and the next morning the staff told us they were killed." She was still agitated by the events.

"Sounds horrible," John replied sympathetically.

"Yes, it was. Good that the murder was solved so quickly. It gives me a safe feeling being around here again," she explained. "You're here to solve this problem?" Anne continued, nodding in Sherlock's direction.

At first John was afraid that she meant the case but her face told him that she was talking about Sherlock's behavior.

"No, not really," John said hesitatingly.

She was curious. "Why did you come here, then?"

"It's…complicated."

"It always is," she agreed. "My husband is complicated, too. I mean I have my share in this too, of course." She pointed a finger at a tall, blond man struggling with the luggage.

"Do you find it hard to love him?" she asked after a while, watching her own husband.

John watched Sherlock thoughtfully. "No, it's quite easy, actually." It was. He loved the man, no doubt. The question remained what kind of love he actually felt for him.

By now, she was probably convinced that he was mentally handicapped because she uttered an inaudible excuse under her breath and disappeared quickly. On the other hand, she had been nice. John hoped that she had just decided to rush to her husband's help and did not label him as crazy.

When Sherlock returned, John could tell that he was slightly irritated by the intellectual abilities of the receptionist.

"Introduced yourself?" John mocked him.

"I will definitely not survive this weekend," Sherlock stated, heavily sighing.

John chuckled. Sherlock could be such a drama queen sometimes. "Yeah you will. Think of the nice serial killer you will be able to chase. And afterwards you can take the piss out of Davies."

"I don't know if it's worth all of this," Sherlock explained with a wide hand gesture, rolling his eyes. He didn't trouble to hide his disgust. "Well, we better hurry."

"Why? We're going to start today?"

"We are apparently taking part in a massage workshop that starts over half an hour." Sherlock's face was unreadable again.

John wasn't able to say anything.

* * *

><p>The docent of the massage workshop started with explaining and showing several massage techniques. It took approximately twenty minutes and Sherlock already had a bored face. They had spent the first ten minutes with introducing themselves to each other and Sherlock had sneered once or twice by the remarks of the participants.<p>

"Sherlock," John hissed as quietly as possible.

"Bored," Sherlock replied impassively, watching a spot on the wall in front of them.

"Sherlock, please. The people are here to save their relationships. Don't spoil it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock shook his head, smiling knowingly. "Anne and Ben are really trying to make something out of it, I suppose, as for the rest….Cameron is only trying to save his company and not his marriage. He's also having an affair with his secretary and is currently interested in Emily. His wife Diana is too busy with fund raising to recognize any of that. Maybe she doesn't want to see as long as the bank account is fine. Emily and Frank are only here to be able to say that they've tried everything before getting a divorce and starting a fight about their children. So Emily might start an affair with Cameron after all. While I believe Grace is really desperate to prevent a divorce to keep up appearances, her husband Howard is actually gay." He paused a moment. " I have to warn you, John, he obviously has developed an eager interest in you. Iris and Jack are deeply unhappy in their marriage but have come here under the pressure of their church." He turned his head to look at John. "That leaves you and me. Honestly John, if there is a relationship that is going to be alright, it's ours."

John's eyes flickered to Howard who was watching him intensely indeed. Unintentionally his hand moved towards Sherlock's. "Do you always have to deduce everything and everyone?" _Stupid question._

John realized that Sherlock as well as Howard were smiling about his movement.

_Bugger! _

John made a mental note to keep close to Sherlock which would of course result in fuelling the debate between his mind and his heart. However, John decided that was the lesser of the two evils.

"Of course, John. Therapy is boring, social gatherings are boring, life is boring. I have to make the best of it."

"That's absolutely awful. I don't want to know all of that about these people. Now I have to think about it when speaking to them. And one of them is our killer…."

"Yes, one of them is our man."

"Are you sure about it?" _Stupid question._

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Oh, dear."

"Don't worry. I'm by your side," Sherlock replied smiling, squeezing John's hand.

John blushed a bit and tried to distract Sherlock from this very obvious fact. "I've brought my revolver. I only worry about keeping you safe since you tend to forget about your own safety as soon as you have a case."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, I am a little bit forgetful about these things."

_That was the understatement of the year._

Meanwhile, it was their turn to bring the techniques into practice.

"I will start," Sherlock exclaimed generously. "You can close your eyes and forget about Howard." Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"You are so good to me."

"About time that you realize that."

John didn't reply, but went to lie prone.

The massage was … awesome. It wasn't really a surprise, of course. If Sherlock took the effort to pay particular attention to something he usually knew his stuff well. His hands were skimming over John's skin effortlessly. The massage oil smelled like lavender and something else, that John couldn't remember. He liked it. It was the first time that Sherlock touched him with his bare hands – not counting holding hands of course. His touch was neither too gentle nor too hard, just right.

John heaved a sigh. "You really are great, you know that?"

"Forgot about your adorer?" Sherlock asked, playfully. "You haven't told me in quite some time."

"Forgot about you boredom?" John countered, smiling, eyes closed.

"No, don't stop," John objected, sighing when Sherlock removed his hands.

"I am sorry, John, but the instructor apparently wants us to discuss it, now."

John slowly sat up and recognized that Sherlock's eyes lingered a fraction of a second longer on his bare skin than absolutely necessary. He smiled despite himself and put on his shirt again.

Unfortunately, Howard's eyes rested on him, too. If that wasn't about to stop, John would have to take severe actions. He was not yet sure what that would be but time would tell him. John made sure that Howard was looking his way when he gave Sherlock the most affectionate look he could come up with. The detective didn't flinch.

"So Emily, tell me how you liked Frank's massage."

"He didn't do it right. He is always kneading way too hard to enjoy it. I always tell him but he never listens. He never listens to me."

"I'm sure you are not complaining when Fernando is giving you his treatment."

"Frank!"

The group spent another ten minutes listening to the story of Fernando the Spanish masseur who had or had not an affair with Emily. Sherlock rolled his eyes, John chuckled.

The docent looked around. "Anne?"

"I think I liked it." Anne was shy.

Ben didn't look up. Apparently Ben was shy, too.

Sherlock coughed. John could tell he had to bite his tongue.

"What about you, Grace?" the instructor asked.

"I'm not sure. I believe I like it harder," Grace complained. "Howard's always so soft."

We didn't want to know that, thank you very much, John thought disbelievingly.

Howard looked at John. "I'm easily distracted," he explained. There was an open invitation in his smile.

Iris and Jack still looked extremely unhappy. Jack continued to make apologies for not being able to do it right and Iris explained near to tears that it didn't matter and that she didn't know why she was so unhappy.

"They are ill-matched. They should get a divorce and get over it," Sherlock muttered under his breath, impatiently. "For the benefit of us all!"

"Sherlock," John hissed. "Behave!"

"Oh, please. I'm dying."

"Shhht."

The instructor turned to Cameron and Diana. Cameron had only eyes for Emily. His wife, Diana, pretended that she didn't see it and said that Cameron improved every time.

"John, what about you?"

All eyes were turned towards him. From the corner of his eye, John realized that Howard never averted his gaze from John. He undressed him with his eyes. How his wife couldn't realize that was beyond him.

Sherlock watched him with curiosity.

This time, John looked squarely into Sherlock's eyes on purpose. He knew what would happen and that the reaction of his body would show. He couldn't help it. Maybe that would cool Howard down. He examined Sherlock's eyes. They were sparkling and bright and maybe even soft. Not as austere as they were usually, John realized. Subconsciously, he registered his increased heart rate and the familiar swelling in his stomach.

Sherlock carefully took hold of his wrist. John didn't bother to cast off Sherlock's hand.

John swallowed hard. "You never cease to amaze me," John said with a firm voice. He was glad his nervousness didn't show. What he said was true and he had told him before. "In every possible way", considering to Sherlock.

"Never?" Sherlock wanted to know.

John couldn't tell whether he was teasing him or not.

John took a deep breath. "Never. Ever. At all."

Sherlock's lips turned into a smile. He broke their eye contact and his gaze flickered towards Howard who was shifting nervously in his seat and seemed uncomfortable with the sudden electricity in the room.

John, too, was aware of the changed atmosphere which was a silent witness of the chemistry between them. He wasn't prepared for Sherlock, quickly leaning forwards and turning him into an embrace. However he automatically hugged him back and rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. His muscles slackened off. He gave in. His subconscious sang a song of gladness. He decided to ignore it and to just close his eyes, nestling his face into Sherlock's neck. He was pretty sure that he was going to have an identity crisis by the end of this.

In the background, he heard someone weeping freely. It sounded like Anne who cried 'how sweet' through tears.


	12. In therapy

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><p><span>Chapter twelve<span>

The group had one hour of free time after the massage workshop and Sherlock and John joined the rest to have some tea. John was in desperate need of it and he knew that Sherlock hadn't eaten or drank enough that day.

John offered him a cup of tea and some scones with a serious face. "Take it."

"Thank you, I suppose." Sherlock made an annoyed face but kept honoring their bargain.

"That's the price you have to pay when getting involved with a doctor," John replied smugly.

Sherlock frowned at him. "You know that this will slow me down unnecessarily."

"That's just a cranky idea of yours. An engine cannot run on air. Your brain needs nutrients."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but remained silent when he saw John's "you-will-do-as-I-tell-you"- doctor face.

John took his own tea and sat gratefully down next to Sherlock. While the detective sipped his tea, apparently being absorbed in thought, John's eyes flickered towards Anne who sat two tables away. Anne didn't stop weeping for the rest of the massage workshop. Ben had been desperate by the end of it. John would have felt sympathy for her, had he not been preoccupied with the ongoing and unwanted attention from Howard. If possible, Howard was rather more attracted to John than less due to Sherlock's actions. Fortunately, he had been sitting on the other side of the room. Sherlock had simply sat close by John's side, invading his personal space. Their thighs had been touching. Considering the situation, John didn't mind. He had tried not to be aware of Howard's gaze and had turned his attention towards Sherlock. The detective had been observing their fellow students, deducing their characters further and trying to narrow down the list of suspects. His eyes had been focused, taking in every detail. From time to time he had given a short snort or heaved a sigh when someone had said something he found utterly boring.

John liked that about him, the absolute focus and determination. It provided direction. It was easy to follow him. Their current situation could have been very funny actually, if it wasn't for the fact that there was a killer in their midst.

"Come on, John. Otherwise we'll be late again."

Sherlock's voice suddenly roused John from his daydreams. "What's the matter now?"

"Cuddle therapy."

"What?" John hissed towards Sherlock as quiet as possible as they were following the other's out of the room, remaining some distance.

"Don't give me that look, John. We are simply taking the Smith's place. I didn't choose the subjects."

John held his gaze.

"We are committed to solve this case, John. I am not bouncing back by some sort of cuddle nonsense," Sherlock stated with a stern look. "Cheer up! We don't have to talk with anyone and I can use the time to observe. The sooner we find the man the sooner you will be out of here. Back home, you can make a romantic story out of it as you usually do."

"I can tell you one thing. I am not going to blog about this case."

"Why not?"

"That's why!"

"Never let your ego get wrapped up in your work, John," Sherlock teased him.

"Aha, listen to this," John murmured under his breath, barely audible. However he couldn't suppress a smirk.

Sherlock watched him with a faint smile. "And what's more important: You didn't seem to mind an hour ago."

"That was a hug. Cuddling is strictly private and not meant for other eyes, there's a difference." Maybe he shouldn't be bothered by the public aspect of it but more about cuddling with his best friend itself, John thought disbelievingly.

"You cuddle with me every morning, John. I dare say you're experienced enough by now to give it a try."

What he exactly meant by "giving it a try" remained unknown to John, because they reached the room in which they were supposed to attend to the Cuddle Therapy. Dr. Martin was waiting for the group impatiently. Her appearance gave John an idea why David Jones didn't get on well with her. She was a small, blonde woman, who obviously was used to be in the lead and had an air of condescension which wasn't the best attribute for a therapist.

"I guess the massage workshop took that long - again. I suggest we start with a short introduction. You'll find name badges at the table. Please write your name on it. Take a seat. I want you to tell me what you like the most about your partner. We want to create an atmosphere which is inviting. Clockwise, please."

Sherlock's face fell. "Not this again, please," he groaned silently. He stretched the "s" dramatically.

John nudged him.

"Well, Ben is…a good listener," Anne said quietly. Fortunately, she had stopped crying by now.

Ben sat next to her and moved very restless in his seat. "Anne is very attentive."

"My brother is a good listener and very attentive, too. I wouldn't say that speaks in his favor," Sherlock whispered with a blank expression.

John tried to keep a straight face, looking out of the window. "I think she doesn't have surveillance on him."

"That is to hope for."

"I have to think," Emily declared and made a long pause, before responding. "Frank is dutiful. He is a lawyer."

Well, that certainly explained one or two things in John's view. Sherlock snorted – apparently over the thinking part.

"She's a good lay," Frank shouted with laughter. "I guess that's why Fernando stays with us."

The group watched him, deeply shocked. Frank, however, didn't give a toss.

"Frank," Emily cried.

Frank rolled his eyes and rested his bulging eyes on the docent. Whether he was bored himself or he was trying to make eyes at her.

"Cameron is very inventive," Diana exclaimed eagerly. She seemed to have been very keen to have her say for some time now.

If she had cast a glance towards her husband, she would have seen that he was winking at Emily who didn't seem to object.

Cameron replied that Diana was very familial.

John could imagine that came just in handy for him and shook his head.

"Yes, my Grace is very domestic, too." Howard pats his wife on her arm and smiled broadly towards John.

Apparently it came in handy for Howard, too.

"Unfortunately, you are not AND you are always leaving the toothpaste tube open."

"No, please, no toothpaste tube talk," Sherlock sighed loudly. This time it was audible. "Get a divorce."

All eyes were focused on him. Howard and Grace watched him scandalized.

John frowned at him.

"Don't give me the look, John. Toothpaste tube talk is the end of love. If you have nothing else to discuss but this, it is about time to terminate the relationship."

"You never discuss about these tiny details then? You are here for a reason, too," Howard asked snappishly.

Sherlock glowered at him. "No. Never."

"No, we do not," John hedged. He didn't count the body parts among the tiny details.

Dr. Martin decided it was about time to end the discussion. It was Grace's turn to say something nice about Howard.

"Well, he is very caring," Grace answered hesitatingly. She was still angry at Sherlock.

Jack cleared his throat and announced that Iris was very obedient. Apparently, that was a good thing for Jack.

"Jack is very good to me," Iris replied, looking bashfully at the ground.

John pitied her.

"Don't," Sherlock breathed and gave John a candid look. "Every man is the architect of his own fortune."

John met his eyes. He had expected an annoyed face, but Sherlock looked at him pleasantly. His anger ebbed away immediately. "Not every man is qualified to forge his own destiny, Sherlock. Some people haven't learned how to act on their own responsibility."

"Fortune favours the brave, John."

They exchanged a long look. _Did Sherlock mean to tell him something aside the obvious - that every person gets what he or she deserves until he or she takes over control? Was the whole emotional rollercoaster not only about the case? Did Sherlock really want them to become involved and leave it up to John to choose? And the most important question: what the heck did John want himself? _Nagging questions were buzzing in his head, making him feel fuzzy-headed. The case certainly prompted questions.

"So, and what about you two?" Dr. Martin addressed them.

"John is … John," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John coughed to suppress a giggle. She wouldn't understand "John is John". She wouldn't assume "John is not boring" to be a compliment either.

Dr. Martin was confused and watched him intently. "I think you should broaden your explanation."

Sherlock gave her his fake face. "John is simply … a-ma-zing." His voice was a singsong.

It didn't work.

Sherlock sighed and took a deep breath. "John is many things. John is brave. John is smart. John is reliable. John is trustworthy. John is patient. He is a conductor of light. I like his sense of humour." He gave her a penetrating look. "Oh, and he makes great tea."

Sherlock returned to his fake smile. "John is the love of my life."

"See, that wasn't so hard after all," Dr. Martin replied. However, she still looked a bit confused. "Now, John?"

John was confused, too. For all he knew, Sherlock could have meant what he said. John became noticeably more nervous. "First of all, Sherlock is brilliant, keen-witted . He is resourceful, dynamic, self-assertive. He never ceases to amaze me. "

He paused a moment to consider before responding. John glanced towards Sherlock who was smiling genuinely. He returned the smile, remembering that he had told him twice this day. "He is a good man. Sherlock is my life…he rocks my world."

"I was taking the short turn in telling her about my feelings for you," Sherlock whispered when Dr. Martin averted her attention from them. "If I would have hesitated unnecessarily, we would have been engaged in one of those boring discussions about the nature of our relationship that last forever."

John wished he could find this discussion boring too. The voice in his head kept firing questions at him he had no answer to. There was no one he could turn to in order to ask for some advice on the matter. He had not more to take as a starting point than hints or suggestive remarks from his friend. A sea of open questions remained. The uncertainty drove him mad.

"Good point," John replied silently and added after a moment, "Telling me in a nice way that you don't mean what you've said?" He tried to ask in a light tone, but he was secretly afraid of the answer. He didn't mean to ask at all but it just happened all by itself.

"I didn't say that," Sherlock grinned.

_Oh, good. Was it good? Should it be good?_

Dr. Martin clapped her hands.

John jolted out of his thoughts.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand up. Face-to-face. We're going to start with a simple embrace."

"We can do that," Sherlock smirked and gave John a leg-up. "We have to set a good example, John."

"Err…right. We have some…err…hugging experience."

Dr. Martin put on some soft, instrumental music and dimmed the lights.

That wasn't helpful. Things were getting too much for John.

He decided to make it quick and easy and clasped Sherlock. He nestled his face in Sherlock's neck the way he had done earlier. This way he didn't have to look, just to feel.

At first, Sherlock went rigid. He didn't anticipate John's quick move. The stiffness lasted only seconds, however. Sherlock held him tight in return, resting his chin on the top of John's head. He didn't caress John or moved otherwise. He let him take the lead.

John let himself feel - the lean but surprisingly muscular body in his arms, the touch of their chests, the pleasant feeling of warmth, the calm and steady lifting and lowering of their thoraxes were moving in unison. By now, he anticipated the swelling feeling in his stomach which made it less overwhelming and he was grateful for that.

John didn't know whether they were being watched or not, he didn't pay any attention to the instructions that were given by Dr. Martin. He had no idea whether Sherlock did or not. He probably did what he intended to do in the first place – observing their fellow students. John had no idea what Sherlock felt at that moment or if he let himself feel anything at all. He drank in the familiar scent and started to wonder what it would be like to touch his long and pale neck with his lips. He was merely inches away but he didn't move. If he was honest, he enjoyed their physical closeness.

"Sherlock," John whispered slowly, not moving.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied absent mindedly.

"Do you already have a theory?"

"Eight, so far."

"Good." John didn't expect Sherlock to tell him the details. He would be made privy to it when Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed and he needed a sparring partner.

John was surprised when Dr. Martin announced the end of the session. Apparently, he had lost track of time. Reluctantly, he disengaged himself from Sherlock's embrace and ruffled his hair. One hand remained on Sherlock's chest. He was looking at it reflectively, when Sherlock suddenly moved.

Sherlock raised his hand and swiftly brushed the length of John's cheekbone with his fingertips before he took two steps back, retreating from John's personal space.

The tingling sensation lingered on his cheek. It had happened so quickly that John wondered whether he had imagined it or not.


	13. A lot of inconvenience

**The chapter is betad by JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much. Thanks to all of you for your support.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter thirteen<span>

Their second day in Aldershot had started uneventful, except for the repeating moments of tension between Sherlock and John and the repeating moments of embarrassment between John and Howard. They had started the day with the continuation of their massage workshop, where it had been John's turn to bring some of the techniques into practice. Halfway during the lesson Sherlock had started a heated argument with Frank, who had made some snide remarks about his wife again. At some point Sherlock had been so annoyed – and probably bored too – that he deduced Frank's private life to him, his wife and the audience.

By the end of the workshop Sherlock's behaviour had made John furious. John had shouted at Sherlock, and Sherlock had shouted at John. They quickly had forgotten the others and had gotten into a fight with each other. The room had been stunned to silence. Infuriated, John had stormed out of the room as soon as they had been dismissed by their docent. An hour later, they had been sitting next to each other in the group therapy quietly, refusing to talk with each other. Only when Dr. Martin asked them a question they had answered as neutral as possible. The whole time John had felt that all eyes were riveted on them.

Since Dr. Martin wasn't only the instructor on cuddle therapy but also their therapist in Aldershot, she had decided by the end of the session that each couple had to write love letters to each other – focusing on the things they valued in each other. They were given two hours in the afternoon to accomplish the task at hand before they were going to have dinner. They would be discussing the letters the day after. John had heaved a long and very audible sigh, Sherlock had simply buried his face in his hands. He had had the faint suspicion that his friend might have said some things otherwise that would have fit into the category "a bit not good" again, because he had been muttering under his breath the whole time. It hadn't been until they had been in their bedroom again that Sherlock had apologized – and John had forgiven him. As usual.

For now, John was glad to have some Sherlock-free time. He needed time to think without being distracted by his mere presence. Therefore he had left the sulking detective in their room twenty minutes earlier and went to the winter garden. He had found a cozy spot on one of the broad windowsills, where a sitting area had been established. He drew up his knees under his chin and looked out of the window into the garden, which was covered under a thick layer of snow. Apparently, it had started snowing again while they had been in therapy. The blanket of snow had something comforting. The trees were decorated with fairy lights which were glowing ghostly under the dust of snow on the limbs. It was a peaceful setting for an ugly business as this.

A beep from his phone jolted John out of his thoughts. He didn't need to look to know who had sent it. Slowly he took his phone out of his pocket. _Right._

John. S

John didn't answer. He had other things on his mind right now. Time was pressing. If he didn't come up with something quickly, time would be up. But what to write to Sherlock? John did see the irony in writing lines of love to the World's only Consulting Detective who happened to have divorced himself from feelings. Well, not really divorced, but he tried to ignore them most of the time. He was avoiding them like the plague.

Another beep.

John. S

John sighed heavily and took several deep breathes. _Okay, John. Relax! You've written these before. It is not that bad. _Of course, he secretly knew that it really was that bad. He was tempting fate.

Another beep.

JOHN.S

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was not going to stop bothering him. Sherlock was getting impatient. John decided to send a quick message.

What? J

I'm bored. S

You're supposed to write a letter. Have you already finished it? J

No. S

You're not supposed to be bored then. J

I don't know what to write to you. Besides, we need to discuss the case. I need you to distract me from boredom. S

1. I thought I was the love of your life? We can discuss the case later. Think about our cover. We have to write something unless you will be able to solve the whole affair tonight. J

You have a point. Tonight is unlikely, although I should be able to make some progress. Should I use the letter to declare myself? S

That's what love letters are for. Declaring your love. But you're not going to finish the letter if you keep sending me texts. J

He hesitated a moment before sending a second message.

If it's any comfort to you, I don't know what to write either. J

You could send me some of the poetry you used to send to your girlfriends. S

So you can laugh at me? If I recall correctly, you found it funny, Sherlock. I'm not letting you take me on a ride. J

I'm sure you can do better for me. I am much more inspiring. S

_Inflated ego._

I am not gracing this with an answer, Sherlock. J

Because you know I am right. S

Yeah, you're great. Now, shut up. I need to think. J

Another twenty minutes passed without making much progress. Of course, he could write him some of his so called 'poetry'. But it felt wrong. This wasn't like that. It didn't fit. This wasn't like…_them_. Which wasn't helpful at all since John had no idea what _they _were nowadays.

JOHN. S

_For heaven's sake._

Sherlock, what is it now? J

I'm still bored. Do you think the Clinic would mind, if I conduct a few experiments in our room? S

That took the biscuit. His flat mate slash best friend slash temporary – or possibly not so temporary, considering the recent events, because who was going to believe him anyway – fiancé was absolutely impossible. One needed to keep one's eyes glued to the man. He must have had a brainstorm to agree to the whole affair. Unfortunately, it was too late now to reconsider the matter. He made a mental note to tell him 'no' more often. Deep inside he knew that was in vain.

I WOULD MIND. KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF. I'M NOT KIDDING. J

John. S

No. J

Please? S

No. J

Please? Please? S

NO! J

Go and finish your letter. J

Once he had decided to forget about the 'love' part of the letter, he was able to collect his thoughts. He concentrated exactly on what Dr. Martin mentioned – what he cherished about their relationship and what his part in it was. He left open the questions that bothered him.

JOHN.S

_Here we go again!_

SHERLOCK. J

I wrote you a letter. S

He sounded self-confident. It didn't take much fantasy to imagine he looked like the cat that got the cream.

I am worried now. J

He was.

About what? S

How bad is it? J

Still no trust in me? S

I trust you with my life. I just don't think of you as a man that pours out his heart in a letter. J

_Or at all._

No, John thought, that wasn't entirely fair. He had opened up and he still did, occasionally.

I am not. But that doesn't mean that I don't understand the concept of a love letter. S

I did some research. S

Everything from his heart took the long turn through his head, to be analyzed, reflected, categorized and verified, before he took the trouble to share his thoughts or to store them away in his mind palace. Therefore John prepared himself for the scientific declaration he was going to hear.

It is not. S

What? J

A scientific essay. You are afraid it might be. Because I said 'research'. S

Are you trying yourself in mind reading now? J

I don't need to see you, to deduce you, John. I know you well. S

John thought "showoff" before the meaning of it sank in. Sherlock Holmes has written a love letter to him. He choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode but a small giggle managed to get out despite his efforts. That was actually pretty hilarious and he dreaded the day that was about to come, because Sherlock would read it out loud to him in front of the others, and John had no idea whatsoever, how to make a serious face, if it turned out to be as bad as he assumed it would be.

John? S

I'm so proud of you. J

Do I read sarcasm in that text of yours? S

I wouldn't dare. J

Now, let me finish mine. J

No experiments, Sherlock. I warn you. J

Try the Turkish bath they have. That will do you good. J

I'd rather go with you. S

Miss me already? J

Always. S

Are we really doing this? John thought. Mobile flirting. Holy Mary!

You'd better watch out for Howard while I'm gone. S

I'll try. J

Somebody had definitely forgotten to give him the script to this play. He was definitely not going to blog about it. _A study in love. The Adventure of Counseling - How we saved our relationship and other revelations. _Too bad, he could probably find a suitable headline for this mess. John couldn't wipe the sly smile off his face.

"Flirting with your boyfriend?" a familiar voice asked suddenly.

Speaking of the devil… John could even hear the ambiguous smile of its owner before he turned around to see that he was indeed smiling ambiguously.

"Fiancé, Howard. He is my fiancé." And this is none of your business, he thought, but he forced himself to smile politely nevertheless.

"Thought so. I was watching you from over there," Howard told him, pointing vaguely into the direction where he came from. "Mind if I join you?"

"Don't you have a letter to write to your _wife_." John emphasized the word "wife" in order to draw an invisible line between Howard and himself. Stay, where you are, you are married and I am engaged.

Howard, however, didn't mind. "Nah. I'm here to keep her satisfied. She'll come around. I've written some corny lines. She'll be happy."

Ugh, yuck!

He sat down opposite John.

That was going to be awkward, but John did see this come. This conversation had been inevitable.

"And what have you written to your beloved? He does not look like one who's heart is easily touched."

"The truth." At least the part he was certain about, the safe part.

"The truth is the end of it, believe me."

"The love of truth is a virtue he prizes highly. So do I," John replied annoyed.

"Oh, my dear. Sometimes, you need to bend the truth. There aren't many people who can bear the unblemished truth. The truth can hurt," Howard explained, watching John intensely. His suggestive smile was never fading. "I am curious. Tell me about him. How did he capture your heart?"

"By being himself." _Duh!_

"So this is about true love, then?"

John thought about the discussion he had with Sherlock a few days earlier in their kitchen about faith. _Unconditional, unrestricted and absolute._

John looked him squarely in the eyes. "Apparently."

The look in Howard's eyes was a dead giveaway. "Well, he is attractive, I have to confess, but you … are hot."

Bloody hell! Howard wasn't a man who lost time.

"Your boyfriend doesn't seem to be easily pleased. He is demanding, isn't he ?" Howard continued, studying John intently.

"My _fiancé_, Howard, is in a class of his own."

"I might be persuaded to share some of my secrets with you, for your own benefit, John. They might prove beneficial to satisfy his needs."

O-kay. That was somehow unexpected. He knew that Howard was on the prowl, and he also knew that he preyed upon John. He didn't know that it was for his own benefit – to remain in the position to lay his own fiancé. Not that he had ever been or had ever wanted to be in the position to do so. He had never given it a thought before. At least not consciously. He couldn't vouch for his subconscious. That was leading its own life for a while now.

John tried to keep a cool head. "Err….Howard, look. I'm flattered by your interest, but I really do love Sherlock and our relationship is … exclusive. I assure you I am perfectly able to … satisfy his needs."

Howard suddenly moved closer to John, leaning forward. "The more important question is: can he satisfy yours? I can see it in the way you're looking at him. And I can see it in the way you're looking at me. You're hungering for it." Obviously, Howard wasted no time with beating around the bush. Whether he was underlaid or he had a craving for sex. John could easily have forgiven him both, if it wasn't for the fact that John was the subject of his lust and that Howard was a married man.

"You know that a fling can invigorate one's relationship. The sensation of learning something new, something naughty," Howard continued, giving John a meaningful look.

_Enough was enough._

John cleared his throat and pulled rank. "I assure you, we are perfectly fine on that front. Let me give you a word of advice. I wouldn't challenge him if I were you. He usually gets his way."

Howard wasn't impressed. If anything, it had turned him on further. "What if I can't resist the temptation? I usually get mine."

_You have no idea, mate._

John shrugged. "The last one shot himself in the head. Knock yourself out!"

Suddenly Howard went rigid and leaned backwards, away from John. John turned around to see Sherlock leaning against the wall. He didn't wear his usual suit, but had changed into a pair of slim dark blue jeans and a black shirt. John had never seen him wearing Jeans before. The sight of him was … new.

"There you are, love. I was looking for you," Sherlock grinned.

John didn't reply. His eyebrows were high on his forehead. He was completely astonished by Sherlock's turnout.

Sherlock looked closely at John. "I've missed you."

"Well, I better go. Grace will be waiting for me." Howard hastily left them, muttering excuses under his breath. Apparently, Howard wasn't that brave after all when it came to Sherlock personally. Maybe the sudden electricity had made him uncomfortable again.

John didn't look after him. He never averted his gaze from his friend. Sherlock pushed off the wall and slumped into Howard's now deserted seat. John started to feel a bit dizzy again in his head. Apparently he had forgotten to breathe. He had to inhale a few times to make the singing of his ears go away.

"Right on time, I dare say," John told him when he had found his voice again. "He was about to eat me alive."

Sherlock smirked. "I told you to watch out."

"I didn't go looking for him," John pretended to be indignant about the matter but failed terribly. He let out a relieved sigh and laughed outright. "God, he is not exactly undersexed."

Sherlock reclined his head against the cold window, still smirking. "Well, I better keep a weather eye on you from now on."

"I would appreciate that," John replied in a light tone. He felt better with his friend around him. On the other hand he was convinced that he would probably suffer a heart attack if Sherlock kept any closer to him than he already did. He has been on an emotional rollercoaster ride for weeks now. His feelings were one massive tangle of contradictions.

John decided to change the subject before he could lose ground again. "What's the news? You wanted to discuss the case." He could inquire after the case now, since Sherlock had mentioned it first.

"Indeed." Sherlock repositioned himself and sat tailor-fashion, leaning against the cushions in his back. "Let's recapitulate what we know. The Smiths were killed in their bedroom, the door wasn't closed."

"They must have known their murderer."

Sherlock nodded. "True. They let him in, they didn't know of the danger. He executed them from a short distance, using a silencer. I say "he" because the profile of the murder indicates that it is a man."

"They were murdered in cold blood."

"Yes."

John was confused. "But you've also mentioned love as a motivator. Isn't that conflicting? One would expect a crime of passion to be committed in an outburst of rage."

"Not necessarily. Something happened in his life. His wife left him. Whether out of her own will or she died. Wife? Yes. She "belonged" to him. She was his personal property. So she probably rather left with somebody else than died. No, this murder is not about passion. Another man dispossessed his "property" and she let him. He hunted them down to retrieve what he believed to be his. When she refused to cooperate and come with him she was condemned to death. The execution is the carrying out of the death sentence. He probably killed him first and her second," Sherlock replied darkly.

"You know all this because you went to the Yard?"

"Yes. I've been through the cold cases. There were three other killings that seem to be related to this one. The original murder – the one I described to you - took place five years ago. The victims were found along a road in a secluded area in Kent. It wasn't the original crime scene, of course. He dumped them there. The murderer ensured that the victims couldn't be identified."

John grimaced in disgust. "Do I want to know the details?"

"He cut the fingers off, amongst other things. I think I'll spare you the rest."

John was honestly shocked. "Gruesome!"

"Yes. The second couple was found in a classy hotel in London two years ago, around the "anniversary" of the first murder. You must have read about it in the newspapers when I was … absent. They had been wealthy. It was on the news for weeks. Lestrade did have a hard time back then for not being able to solve the murder. I didn't expect I'd be involved in the case one day." Sherlock let fall a small silence. His sharp eyes flickered to John's.

They usually avoided mentioning the Reichenbach-period as John called it. It was some sort of silent understanding. In the end, he had forgiven his friend heartily but the memory did still hurt sometimes. John nodded. It was okay.

Sherlock looked relieved for a moment before he turned into the astute detective again. "The third couple was killed in a country hotel in Cornwall about a year ago. The modus operandi was always the same."

John rubbed one hand over his forehead, thinking. "Are the locations situated near to each other or in a cluster or something? Any clues where the murderer lives? Anybody whose ex-wife is missing?"

"No. The crime scenes are situated across the southern part of England. He must travel regularly. As for the wife – two of our fellow participants are divorced, one had been a widower. No missing wives are reported. I told you she wasn't identified. She cannot be linked to him." Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking, before he responded, " He might have taken a new identity."

That sounded farfetched. They were living in the UK where they had registration offices, tax offices, fingerprint databases. Surely that couldn't be as easy as changing one's clothes. "A new identity? Could that be possible?"

"If I would want a new identity I could get one in less than twenty-four hours."

"That's because you are the brother of Mycroft Holmes," John answered.

"What Mycroft is to me, Moriarty had been to the world of crime. "_Jim, please, I need a new identity. Can you fix this for me"_?"

"Moriarty?" John exclaimed shocked.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked away. "I don't know, John. Maybe, maybe not. Our official channels aren't that smart either. Maybe he just had sheer luck."

John tried to block Moriarty out of his mind. That guy – dead or not – still made his hair stand on end. "Okay, so we have a serial killer who probably has a false identity and travels regularly. Travelling regularly? Cameron certainly does. Who else?"

"Jack and Howard are working for two banks in London."

"How on earth did you deduce that? You haven't even spoken to them."

"They're used to wearing suits. They did when we arrived. Fingernails and hair, neat and tidy. They don't have to work with their hands. Well-groomed appearances, well-spoken. They are bound to reflect the nature of the company. Office workers," Sherlock rattled down his deductions.

"Okay. Office workers. Explain the bank! Explain the travel!"

"I've eavesdropped during afternoon tea," Sherlock replied deadpan.

"You're impossible," John chuckled. "Impossible, but brilliant."

Sherlock's smile broadened. "I know."

"So we can rule out the others?"

"I think so. Lestrade has confirmed that Frank and Emily have been married for twelve years now. Anne and Ben were in an Indian monastery when the first murder had been committed. That narrows the list down to three." Sherlock was pleased with the progress so far.

"We might be able to check their diaries? Notebooks? Something like that?" John whispered conspiratorially.

Sherlock grinned mischievously. "Yes, something like that."


	14. A cover in plain sight

**The chapter is betad by JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much. Thanks to all of you for your support. **

* * *

><p><span>Chapter fourteen<span>

At dinner, Sherlock and John shared their table with Ben and Anne. Ben had left their table a minute earlier to get some more food. Anne smiled shyly towards John several times but remained silent. Maybe she was awed by Sherlock. However, John had no time to pay further attention to the matter, since he had his hands full with his friend once more.

"Eat!" John ordered impatiently.

Sherlock pulled a face. "John, please. I already ate breakfast yesterday and I had some scones this afternoon. Just to please you."

John held his gaze. "I'm serious, Sherlock. You will eat. It won't help you to behave like a twelve year old again."

"John."

"Don't 'John' me. We agreed on one proper meal, remember?"

"Humph."

_Sulking detective._

"Stop it," John warned him.

Sherlock silently acknowledged defeat and put some food on his plate. He constantly watched John until John gave him a nod to tell him that the amount of food qualified as a proper meal. Sherlock gave John a dramatically faked smile and jabbed one of his potatoes with his fork. He purposely chewed it in a massively exaggerated way, which John pretended to ignore.

Three exaggerated chews later, Sherlock's phone went off. Someone was calling him.

Sherlock shot a quick glance on the display and rolled his eyes. "Mycroft," he hissed quietly. "I better take this one."

"You will come back immediately afterwards and you'll clean your plate," John told him with a serious face.

Sherlock just gave him an annoyed look and rushed out of the room.

"Overgrown man-child," John muttered darkly under his breath.

Anne watched him amused ."You really are sweet together you know?"

"No," John replied dubiously.

"It's kind of funny how you are tiptoeing around each other all the time. The way you're concerned about him, and how he seeks your approval," Anne smiled shyly. "He is different when you're around. Like he is feeling "in place"."

"Hmmm," John answered deliberately because he didn't know what to reply.

"The way you two are bickering is different. It's never hateful. Passionate, yes, but never hateful. It always is loving. So cute. It gives me hope."

That was unexpected. It gave him no more than a headache.

_Doctor, Detective, Blogger, Marriage Saver. God help me._

Anne giggled. "He hates the way Howard is watching you."

"Who doesn't," John replied, letting out a sigh. His eyes flickered towards Howards table, but he was engrossed in a conversation with Cameron and fortunately didn't pay attention.

Anne reached towards John and put a hand on his arm. "Sherlock really does love you, you know. He's just socially awkward. Sometimes people put up walls, not to keep others out, but to see who cares enough to break them down," she smiled warmly. "Keep faith! The two of you will be fine."

Sherlock's return spared John an answer but Anne's statement took him by surprise nevertheless.

Scraps of conversations and thoughts were whirling rapidly in his mind. "_You will have to have some faith in me". "Unconditional, unrestricted and absolute". "Keep faith! You will be fine". "So this is about true love then" . "He does love you"._

Anne gave him another smile and excused herself.

"What happened? You look as though you'd seen a ghost," Sherlock inquired with a concerned look.

John's head was spinning. "Nothing," he hedged and decided to go for a diversionary maneuver. "What did your brother want?"

Sherlock studied John's face intensely but he didn't inquire any further. "He has planned our vacation," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth.

John turned his head quickly. "What?"

"The week after Christmas. He called to make sure we're not going to talk ourselves out of it."

John looked at him in disbelief. "He can't be serious! Does he not have a crisis to solve in Korea or maybe in China or something? Something important?"

"Multitasking," Sherlock replied dryly. He leaned forward towards John, lowering his voice. "At the risk of making you angry again, John, I will skip the rest of the dinner. I promise to have cold supper later, to make it up to you."

"What are you going to do?" John replied surprised.

"_You_are going to have a nice chit chat. Try to find out more about the suspects._I_am going to break into the office and the other's bedrooms. Oh, don't worry, there are people around you. Howard is not going to harass you here."

_I am going to break into the office and other's bedrooms._

John caught his breath. His skin went cold at the words, which Sherlock had uttered slowly in a tone of concentrated resolution. He seemed to see every possible result of such an action - the detection, the capture, the honored career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace.

"For Heaven's sake, Sherlock, think about what you are doing," John cried quietly for fear of someone overhearing them.

"John, I really do not have the time to discuss this," he replied impatiently.

But John was determined and looked at him sternly.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "John, I have given it every consideration. I am never precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed so dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal."

John turned it over in his mind. "Yes, hypothetically."

Sherlock bended his head towards John conspiratorially and continued, whispering. "Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress upon this when a_friend_is in most desperate need of his help?"

John looked at him closely. "You will be in such a false position."

"Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of gathering evidence – at least not as quickly. Everyone is here. This is my chance. Between ourselves, John, it's a sporting duel between this murderer and me. My self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight it to a finish."

"Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?" John tried weakly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Hardly on the evidence."

"Well, I don't like it, but I suppose it must be," John replied darkly after a moment. He didn't like it - these sporting duels between his friend and the criminal masterminds of the world when Sherlock's ego went to all-time highs. At least, this one was no Moriarty, John thought. Just a criminal. Besides, Sherlock enjoyed himself far too much when it came to danger and illegal actions. There was no way that he would leave the man out of his eyes. "When do we start?"

"You are not coming," Sherlock replied with a serious face.

John frowned at him. "Then you are not going."

"You can't help me," Sherlock exclaimed stubbornly.

"How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my resolution is set. Other people beside you have self-respect and even reputations. You're not going to break into that office – or anywhere – alone. There is a killer on the loose. I'm not going to play your desperate boyfriend while you are having fun."

"John," Sherlock said desperately.

"No."

"John."

John was determined. "No."

"Fine. You can come with me. We will interview the suspects tomorrow, then." Sherlock had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, well, John, so be it. We share the same room, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell. You know, that I have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal. See here!" He took a neat little leather case out of his pocket, and opening it under the table, he carefully exhibited a number of shining instruments. "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with every modern improvement which the march of civilization demands. Everything is in order." Sherlock was thrilled to bits.

He had no doubt that his friend would have been the greatest criminal of them all, but he didn't want to add fuel to the flames. Fortunately, Sherlock had decided to become a good man. John also didn't want to know how the leather case had found his way into Sherlock's possession in the first place. "Good. What excuse do we have to leave dinner?"

Sherlock looked at John innocently. "Make up sex. We had a row."

"What?"

"It's a believable cover."

"We cannot just abandon dinner. Everyone will notice," John protested.

"I fancy you as my dessert," Sherlock replied with an evil grin. He looked like the tiger that prepared to capture his prey. "Besides, I want everyone to notice. In some cases, being in plain sight is the best cover you can create. People see, but they never observe."

He slowly straightened up again and adjusted his position towards John. He looked up and met John's eyes with evident curiosity in his expression. "Don't worry. No one is going to mistake my intentions. I have a little experience myself and I have observed people doing this."

John stared back, struggling to think clearly. "Are you trying to seduce me?" he asked alarmed.

Okay, maybe now was the time to panic, after all.

Sherlock reached out his right hand and swiftly brushed John's cheeks with his fingertips the way he had done the day before. His movements were achingly slow, leaving a tingling sensation on John's skin.

Sherlock's fingers carefully traced their way along John's neck, deliberately touching him only lightly. The gentle touch didn't fail to have the desired effect. The well-considered teasing of Sherlock's fingertips made his skin crawl.

No, not maybe. Now was definitely the time to panic.

Unfortunately, John was frozen to the spot. No one had ever touched him like that. All he could do was listen to the uneven pounding of his heart, staring at his friend in astonishment and getting lost in those eyes again. And he knew that the bastard knew, because Sherlock never broke eye contact.

Sherlock slowly placed his left hand on the inside of John's left thigh. John tensed immediately but he never moved an inch. Sherlock stopped the fingertips of his right hand and placed his arm on the back of John's chair, leaning towards him very consciously.

"No. Not trying," Sherlock whispered in his ear in a low voice.

The deep baritone voice was seductive, passing as a bedroom voice. Sherlock's left hand started to mimic the movements he had performed before with his right, stroking the inside of John's thigh teasingly. His touch ever so gentle as before.

At this point, John was only vaguely aware that there were other people in the room.

Sherlock slowly bent his head, closing the small distance that was left between them. He breathed softly against John's neck, before he placed a soft kiss against it. His lips were barely touching John's skin, sending shivers down John's spine.

By now, John had lost all train of thought. Instinctively, he had closed his eyes. He was very much reduced to his basic senses and only simple orders were formed in his mind like "swallow", "breathe in" and "breathe out". The pleasurable sensation at his neck was captivating his senses. A soft moan started to develop in his throat and John had to bite his lip in order to remain silent. His heart was crashing in his chest.

"I think this should do the trick, John. Don't you think?" Sherlock breathed against John's neck.

With his best friend breathing against his skin, John found it extremely difficult to form coherent sentences. Therefore, he simply replied with a hazy "Hmmm".

Sherlock gave him one last long and intense look.

"Let's go then," Sherlock answered satisfied. He grabbed John's hand and pulled him up, before dragging him along behind himself.

John followed him reluctantly. A part of him tried to get a clear head again as soon as possible, the other part of him pouted about the sudden ending of whatever had happened moments ago. For someone with little to no experience he was very good. Extraordinary actually, and although he mostly associated his friend with similar adjectives, this took him by surprise.

It might have been an act, but for all he knew, he just experienced similar to a public foreplay.

This was going to be quite embarrassing at breakfast, John thought. Everyone believed them to have had an intimate night. He could imagine how their fellow students would focus their eyes on them again.

John did his best to match Sherlock's pace.

They were moving quickly but without attracting attention. Sherlock knew his way well through the labyrinth of corridors and staircases.

"What do you hope to find in the office?"John whispered quietly, after making sure that no one was following them.

"The blackmailing affair. How is it connected to the murder? Why was the letter found in the office?" Sherlock replied curtly.

"Strange indeed," John wondered. "But does it have to be connected? Could it not be a coincidence?"

"I think you hit the nail on the head. You improve all the time, John," Sherlock answered, smiling one of his genuine, "John-only"- smiles.

"Two crimes at the same time. You must be giddy with pleasure," John teased him.

Sherlock let him get away with it. "I'm actually starting to enjoy myself," he grinned.

Suddenly John saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant he darted towards the nearby staircase, motioning him to do the same. It was only when John had joined him there that he heard what had alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.

"Sorry, John. I think I am going to have you here and now."

He must have gotten him wrong. "What?"

In reply, Sherlock quickly pushed John a few steps on the stairs, so that their heads were on the same height.

"There's nowhere to hide. Why don't we go upstairs?" John hissed. Despite their precarious situation he realized too late, that his request could have been understood ambiguously.

"I have no intention to do so, John. Remember what I told you about creating a cover in plain sight," Sherlock replied darkly. He didn't give John the time to gather his thoughts. Sherlock quickly pinned him with his back against the wall, leaning his weight against him. He had captured John's hands, which were trapped in Sherlock's above his head.

John stared at him with wide eyes. "Get off me." For a moment, the soldier in John automatically tried to disengage himself, but Sherlock's hands and his weight refused to let him move so much as an inch. He stopped wriggling, preventing himself to unintentionally use techniques of his army days. After all, Sherlock wasn't the enemy.

"Close your eyes, John," he demanded with a firm voice that allowed no argument. "Please, quickly."

John muttered curses under his breath, but submitted in the end nonetheless. He knew when a cause was lost. Reluctantly, he did as Sherlock asked and closed his eyes, waiting in the dark for what felt like an eternity, bowing to the inevitable.

The sensation in his stomach was almost unbearable. Without being able to look, his olfactory sense sharpened. Sherlock's smell did his bit. He shivered involuntarily. Their hands were intertwining. When Sherlock's warm lips finally pressed delicately against the left corner of his mouth, John's breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped the usual beats and he started to feel lightheaded again. He deliberately took a few deep breaths through his nose. Sherlock brushed his lips against John's chin and continued his way up to his ear lobes and back. By now, he had a sketchy idea of the things Sherlock might have done with Victor Trevor. He had never thought he was to witness a firsthand testimony though. Sherlock's broad knowledge of anatomy certainly proved very useful. Eventually, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's, parting them slightly. Sherlock's soft breath against his skin and the gentle touch of his lips made John tremble slightly. However, he stood perfectly still, eyes closed.

Bloody hell! Where had his friend learned to play Casanova like that?

The footsteps were fading rapidly, now.

A moment later Sherlock drew back, resting his forehead against John's. "I think she's gone," he said, catching his breath.

John slowly opened his eyes. "Yeah, probably," he panted slightly and tried to calm down.

They stayed that way a little longer than absolutely necessary, their hands still intertwined above John's head.

"Well, let's give it another try then," Sherlock exclaimed at last, turning around quickly and releasing John from his grip.

"Right," John answered and followed his friend at a slower pace. He was a bit off balance and needed to touch the wall from time to time in order to stabilize himself.

"_No one is going to mistake my intentions." _No, certainly not. At least, there could have been no doubt to whomever had passed them that they had just been a couple, snogging on the staircase. However, snogging didn't really cover it.

Sherlock shot a quick glance at his friend. John could have sworn that the corners of his mouth had twitched slightly.

"Everything all right with you, John?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Woozy", was all John managed to answer.

"Do you suffer from sudden hypotension or was it my kissing experience?" Sherlock teased him, obviously pleased with himself.

John mumbled something like "forgot to breathe" and "took me by surprise" in response.

Sherlock grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I warned you beforehand this time."

Pain in the ass, John thought half-heartedly, but he continued to follow him in silence.


	15. The science of burglary

**This chapter is edited and betad! All mistakes are mine.  
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**Beta: TeapotInATempest. Thanks again!  
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**Sorry it took me so long, but I've been on vacation. At least you didn't have to wait 18 months for the update ... Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! You know what to do ;-)**

Chapter fifteen

Just when they turned the corner and entered the wing which led towards the office area, they saw a woman in the distance heading towards the offices as well. John could have sworn that it was Dr Martin, although she was far away, and he couldn't be absolutely certain.

"Darn it!" Sherlock swore under his breath, "She's going into the office." His face had gone dark. "This is not going according to plan," he said after a moment, thoughtfully.

John rather hoped that Sherlock would abandon his plans of burglary for the night, but he knew him better than to think he would give up just because the odds were stacked against him.

"Well, come on, John. We'll start with the bedrooms instead," Sherlock said with a determined expression.

In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, John could easily see that Sherlock was in a state of suppressed excitement. John had to admit that he was himself tingling with that half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which he invariably experienced when he accompanied Sherlock in his investigations. It was the cure to boredom for both of them, and to Sherlock it even was an antidote for his cocaine addiction. John had not known Sherlock back then, but ever since he had become a good friend of Greg Lestrade's, and started meeting him weekly in the pub, John had heard one or two stories about Greg's long acquaintance with the detective. Sherlock had been a troublemaker, while he was suffering from drug addiction, and he had been arrested occasionally by the Yard for drug possession, public order offences, and insulting an official. It was because his brother had an important and powerful position within the British Government, even in the early days of his career, that Sherlock never had to answer for his behaviour in court. Instead, Mycroft had made a deal where the Yard consulted Sherlock about those crimes which presented some difficulty in their solution. Sherlock had developed a great interest in crime-related matters since leaving university, and the members of the police force did have some noteworthy encounters with the detective while he was being treated for drug addiction. Usually, he confronted them on his own accord with his deductions on cases and insulted them about their own stupidity. During his treatment for addiction, Sherlock realized one day that consulting detective work might just be enough to keep him busy and, therefore, to keep him clean. So he decided to create his own profession. Now, John knew, of course, that it had been Victor Trevor's father who had first given him the idea. Thankfully, Sherlock had been clean now for more than ten years. However, that didn't prevent him from doing something stupid like nearly taking poisoned pills or attempting burglary, John thought, sighing silently.

"Having second thoughts on the matter?" Sherlock asked with a faint smile. Meanwhile, his face had brightened.

"No," John replied, "Not at all. I'd never have a moment's rest until you were back, and I'd rather make sure myself, that you come back safe and undetected."

Sherlock's smile broadened in response. "I know you wouldn't shrink at the last," he continued in a low voice as they went upstairs together.

For a moment John saw something in his eyes that was nearer to tenderness than he had ever seen before. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more.

They had ascended the entrance hall staircase and went into the hall upon the second floor which led to the bedrooms of their fellow students, as well as their own.

"I think we should start with the Cameron and Emily's room, and continue with Howard and Grace's. The husbands described their wives as domestic, and it's likely that they will return first. Jack and Iris have an individual therapy session after dinner this evening with Dr Martin. Therefore it is safe to assume, that they will not return as soon," Sherlock explained.

Just as John had mentally prepared himself to actually start with the burglary business, he heard the laughter of a familiar voice from the landing of the first floor. There was no doubt that the person in question was heading quickly in their direction. John could hear the exaggeratedly light tread, taking two steps at a time, by which the person signaled the youthfulness and health he wanted to project.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock swore quietly, "not again." He looked intensely at John and shook his head slightly. "I apologise, John, but I am afraid, that I have to jump you again," he said after a moment. "Come on, quickly, towards our bedroom door."

John hadn't time to collect his thoughts. The footsteps were approaching rapidly now.

Sherlock took hold of John's wrist and dragged him towards the door of their room. In front of the door Sherlock halted and cast an apologetic look at John. He shrugged, and with a last glance at John, he took him into his arms, pressed his lips against John's for the second time this evening, and closed his eyes.

John was too much taken by surprise by Sherlock's sudden actions to resist the embrace or the kiss. With the footsteps only seconds away now, John placed one hand on Sherlock's back, took hold of his neck with the other, and closed his eyes as well.

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

Then, their self-control disintegrated. John lost track of time. He couldn't care less about what was going on around him. Their lips parted, their tongues were exploring each other's mouths. Their hands caressed each other's backs, ruffled each other's hair and touched each other's cheeks. The kiss deepened and grew more violent by the second. They rummaged each other's clothes for the keys and stumbled into their room.

Sherlock violently closed the door behind them with one of his feet. Outside, the footsteps hastened away. The deep kiss lasted for several more seconds before John eventually had to break apart to catch his breath. They held onto each other, panting.

"I think he's gone," John said, gasping for breath after each word.

"I think so," Sherlock replied, breathing heavily himself.

"Maybe Howard will cool down now," John murmured hopefully.

"I sincerely hope so," Sherlock answered, smiling, "but I wouldn't bet on it."

Finally, Sherlock reluctantly let go of him and went to the window in the darkness.

John, slowly coming back to full consciousness, silently shook his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, did we just kiss senselessly?" he asked, still slightly panting.

Sherlock turned towards him, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "Yes."

"Err…okay," John replied confused and added, "Did I just kiss you back?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said in his low baritone voice with a hint of impatience.

_Bloody hell!_

"Oh. Good," was all John could come up with.

Sherlock cocked his head and sighed. "Come on, John. We've got work to do." With that he opened the door connecting to the balcony.

Suddenly, John didn't have the time to worry further about the kissing. "You mean we're going that way?" John wanted to know. "Climbing from balcony to balcony?"

Although John couldn't see his face in the dark, he knew that Sherlock probably rolled his eyes at his remark.

"John, come now," he insisted.

John could tell that Sherlock's patience was wearing thin. "Ready when you are," he gave in, sceptically, and followed his friend outside.

They carefully climbed on the balustrade and easily managed to reach the next balcony. It belonged to Iris and Jack's room; they were absent and they would search their room last. From there they jumped to Cameron and Emily's balcony. Sherlock fiddled a minute with the lock of the door until it flew open with a sharp but silent snap. They quickly entered the room and closed the door behind them. Sherlock immediately settled down to a systematic examination. Swiftly and methodically he turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and closet after closet. After twenty minutes he was no further than when he had started. John himself had carefully examined the couple's personal belongings. In Cameron's luggage he found his diary. The only entries of interest were encoded appointments with his lovers, but Sherlock quickly broke the code. John did, however, find a small card hidden between two pages.

"What's this, Sherlock?" John asked, showing him his discovery. "I will be there," it read.

"Ah, that's interesting, John. It's a message, he must have received recently from a woman inside the Clinic," Sherlock deduced and quickly replied to John's questioningly face, "A woman? Yes. Look at the handwriting. From an insider? Yes. Look at the hidden watermark in the paper. They use these cards at the reception desk too."

"Excellent," John remarked.

"Elementary," Sherlock countered.

John sighed and decided to disregard Sherlock's remark and the corresponding haughty look on his face. "The question is, who wrote it and for what purpose?" John asked instead.

"A good question indeed. You excel yourself today, John," Sherlock replied with a hint of sarcasm but with a fond expression on his face all the same. "For now, I am afraid that we'll have to bear it in mind and see where it may lead us in time."

John chose to overlook Sherlock's sarcasm for the time being. He could see at once from Sherlock's eager face that his hopes had been raised. However, they didn't find anything else of interest to their investigation in the room.

"Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we will find something in the other rooms which may help us," Sherlock exclaimed at last and walked out on the balcony again. He carefully closed the door behind John and leaped from the balustrade to the next balcony.

John climbed on the balustrade himself but when he jumped after Sherlock, he was careless for a moment and slipped.

He fell, and his heart skipped a beat.

Bugger!

At the very last moment, he grabbed the lowest rail of the balustrade with his hands. His fall came abruptly to a halt, and he felt as if his arms had been pulled to twice their normal length when his full weight suddenly came upon them. He bit his lip so he did not cry out loud. Fortunately, he had never stopped working out and was thoroughly fit. His arms were able to carry his weight, and, after regaining his balance, he slowly tried to climb up again. He was fairly sure though that his arms were going to hurt the next day.

"For heaven's sake, John," Sherlock whispered and looked relieved to see he had saved himself.

"Don't worry. I'm fine," John replied through gritted teeth and swarmed up the railing. "That was close," he said, fighting for air and looking down with knitted brows. He breathed a sigh of relief, before he carefully attempted a second jump. This time, he landed safely on the opposite balustrade.

Sherlock put a finger on his lips and motioned John to remain silent. The room was dark, and he quickly confirmed that Howard had gone back downstairs, before he fiddled with the door lock. "After you," he whispered jokingly.

John entered the room, silently shaking his head over his friend's suggestive comment, and Sherlock gently closed the door behind them.

"He would give his right arm to have you right here, John," Sherlock insinuated as a response to John's silence.

"That man's creepy," John replied darkly and walked straight to the drawer. "You take care of his personal belongings. There are things I just don't want to know."

Sherlock said nothing, but did as John asked, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

"You're lucky that he's not after you," John frowned.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of him," Sherlock whispered, while he examined the contents of Howard's luggage.

"Oh, la, la! Look at this!" Sherlock held up a box of condoms together with some other items of a more dubiuosl nature. "I doubt that these are meant for his wife. His suitcase had a double bottom, where I found them. He seems to be prepared for all eventualities," Sherlock said and added after a moment, "He seems to have gotten lucky with the massage instructor. He's got his private number."

John coughed. "That's hardly useful for the case!" He hissed.

"No, but very illuminating all the same," Sherlock teased him.

John knew better than to respond, and kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.

"Nothing in here," John stated disappointed ten minutes later. "Apart from any insights in his sexual life, we're not one tittle further than before."

Sherlock leaned back in the chair he was sitting on while searching Howard's things. "Well, John. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. It seems we must cast around for another scent," Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Couldn't you just break into their laptops?" John asked hopefully.

"I'd need more time to do so. They have very few belongings with them from which I could try to deduce the passwords. I called Greg earlier this evening and asked him to check their names, histories, and so on. That shouldn't make too much trouble for him if someone finds out about it."

"Maybe trouble enough. Not everyone in the Yard admires you," John objected. "Which is a mystery to me, of course," he added dryly.

Sherlock let it pass. "He'll have to take the chance. It's a part of the deal," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "And besides, we are friends now, he and I, aren't we?" he added mischievously.

"I guess he knows what he's committing himself to," John replied with a shrug. Not that Greg had any choice in this commitment. Mycroft would see to that personally. But then again, everyone had to bear their own cross, John thought, casting a glance at his engagement ring.

"Moreover, I asked Mycroft for a favour on the phone," Sherlock grimaced. "I'm not particularly happy when I have to place myself at my brother's mercy, but it had to be done. I need results, and quickly too."

"What's he going to do?" John asked surprised.

"One of his experts will thoroughly check out the suspects' agendas of the last five years, their GSM data, holes in their stories. Things like that. He will look everywhere neither Davies nor Greg can look without the necessary formalities. And since there is no proof, yet, they can't do anything."

"That's a well-considered move," John admitted in admiration. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to know why he was going to spend a considerable amount of the Government's money and time. I told him it was his duty to serve his people by helping to bring a criminal to justice - and that he could rejoice in the knowledge, that I owe him a favour now." Sherlock looked as miserable as sin.

If asked, John would say that the Holmes brothers already owed each other several favours, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Instead, John whistled. "Oh, he must really be having the time of his life."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, pulling a wry face. "He seems to enjoy himself." For a moment he seemed to be absorbed in thought, then he glanced at his watch. "Come. We better continue with Iris and Jack. We are groping in the dark here," he continued.

John carefully replaced the contents of the drawer and followed the detective outside. Within several minutes they had climbed the balconies, opened the door and stood in their next door neighbours' bedroom. Again, they thoroughly examined the contents of drawers, desks and closets and went through their personal belongings. Aside from several books published by their church – including one against homosexuality – they found nothing.

"At least now we know why they're watching the two of us so closely," John remarked, pointing to the book.

Sherlock took a close look at the cover. "Why would anyone waste their energy on something so ordinary as this? Who cares who is sleeping with whom?" he asked with knitted brows.

"No idea," John replied. He could tell that Sherlock was getting edgy, despite the sporting challenge of a case without a scent.

Sherlock tapped nervously with his fingers on the desk where he sat. "There's too much of nothing if you know what I mean. I can't put my finger on it. My intuition tells me that this is wrong," he explained impatiently with a wide hand gesture. With that, he knocked over a photo which stood on the desk. Fortunately the glass didn't break.

"That was close," he whispered, being equally relieved about his luck and vexed at his own clumsiness. "But wait, what is this?" he added after a moment. A startled, surprised look came over his face. The photograph showed Iris in front of a farm, but the picture was displaced in its frame and revealed a second picture hidden behind the first. Sherlock recovered his self-possession in an instant. Carefully, he opened the frame and examined the second photo. It showed a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, not unlike Iris in appearance, who was also smiling forcefully into the camera.

"Who is she? Do you think it is one of the victims?" John asked breathless.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered and took a picture of the photograph with his phone. "We'll know soon enough. I'll let Mycroft investigate." He carefully put the pictures back into the frame and placed it on top of the desk again. "Sometimes all one needs is a little bit of luck," Sherlock remarked with a smirk. "There will be time to suss it out tomorrow. Let's go back to our room. We'll wait until everyone is asleep before breaking into the office. I don't want another interruption on our way."

Considering the noises now coming from Howard and Grace's room, the two obviously had returned and were having an intimate night.

John pulled a face. "I'm tough but that guy really makes me sick. Poor woman."

"Maybe we've inspired him," Sherlock replied unblinking. "I told you every man is responsible for his own actions. She knows, John. She knows everything."

John could only stare at Sherlock disbelievingly, with a sour face. "The world's gone mad," he said. "Is she out of her senses?"

Sherlock shrugged as he opened the balcony door for John once more. "To each his own."

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. When they returned to their bedroom, he lost himself for the next two hours in a scientific essay on the science of deduction which he had begun to write. Unlike his friend, John had none of this power of detachment, and those hours, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great importance of the issue and the dangerous nature of the adventure which they were undertaking - all combined to work upon his nerves. It was a relief to John when at last, they set out upon their expedition again.

The door to the office area was locked, but Sherlock took out one of his instruments and fiddled with the door lock. An instant afterwards, they were inside and Sherlock had closed the door behind them. He seized John's hand in the darkness and led him swiftly through the darkened corridor. Sherlock had remarkable powers of seeing in the dark. John had no doubt that he had carefully cultivated them as he did all of the talents that might be useful for his work. Putting out his hand, John felt several coats hanging from the wall. They were in a passage. They quickly passed along it. Sherlock was still holding John's hand when he very delicately opened a door on the right. He entered on tiptoe, waited for John to follow, and then closed the door very gently. John was vaguely conscious that they had entered a large room in which a cigarette had been smoked not long before. Sherlock felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and carefully closed it behind them. Finally, they were in David Jones' office.

The room was shrouded in complete darkness; there were no lights in the adjacent part of the garden. At each side of the windows were heavy curtains, which Sherlock decided to draw closed. He had brought two of his torches with him, which illuminated the room sufficiently. On the other side was the door which led to the terrace. A desk stood in the center, with a chair of shining black leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, a dark sculpture of Buddha on the top. In the corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall green safe, the torchlight flashing back from the polished steel knobs on its face.

"Ah, there's the safe!" Sherlock breathed. He went across the room and examined it thoroughly.

Although he couldn't see his face, John could tell his friend got a kick out of it.

While Sherlock was occupied with breaking open the safe, John examined the outer door. It had struck him that it would be wise to secure their retreat through it. To his amazement it was neither locked nor bolted. John quickly walked over to Sherlock and touched him on the arm. Sherlock turned his face in that direction. John saw him start, and Sherlock was evidently as surprised as John himself.

"I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to John's ear. "I can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

The sudden closeness of Sherlock in the dark made John shiver again.

"Can I do anything?" John asked restlessly.

"Yes. Stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come through the second door, we can get through the other door if our job is done, or hide behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?" Sherlock shone John's face with his torch and looked at him carefully.

John nodded and stood by the door. His first feeling of fear had passed away. Now he was thrilled with excitement. He started to understand Sherlock's justification from earlier that evening and his enthusiasm for the less than legal actions. The high object of their mission, the consciousness that it was done for the good, the diabolical character of their mysterious opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, John enjoyed their dangers. With a glow of admiration he watched Sherlock unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. John knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and he understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green monster. Turning up the cuffs of his shirt, Sherlock laid out several of his instruments. For a moment, John's eyes fell on the lean but nevertheless very muscular forearms which he could make out even in the dim light of the torch. He was still surprised by the strength by which he had been pinned against the wall. He felt his face warming at the thought of it. Fortunately, the darkness kept this secret from his friend's sharp eyes. John carefully banished any thoughts about the second kiss. He'd analyse those thoughts later. Now was not the time.

John stood at the middle door, glancing at each of the others, ready for any emergency; though, indeed, his plans were somewhat vague as to what he should do if they were interrupted. For what felt like half an hour Sherlock worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of a trained mechanic. Finally John heard a click, the broad green door swung open, and inside he had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Sherlock picked one card on top of a pile out.

"Meet me tonight. 11.30 p.m. C.M.".

"What do you make of it?" John whispered curiously.

However, Sherlock didn't get a chance to explain any of his theories. Outside on the veranda, they heard footsteps approaching.

John guessed they had less than a minute to either run or hide.

In an instant Sherlock had swung the door of the safe to, stuffed his tools into the pockets of his coat, and dragged John behind the curtain. Luckily, the door was on the other side of the room, so that the parting of the curtains remained unnoticed.

Whoever was coming, he paused at the outer door. A moment later the door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door was banged shut, and they picked up the strong scent of a cigarette. Then the person was pacing backwards and forwards within a few yards of them. Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. So far John had not dared to look out, but now he gently parted the division of the curtains in front of him and peeped through. From the pressure of Sherlock's shoulder against his he knew that he was sharing John's observations. Right in front of them, and almost within their reach, was the broad, rounded back of Cameron. He was leaning far back in the black leather chair, his legs outstretched, the cigarette projecting at an angle from his mouth. In his hand he held a document, which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude. John had no idea what to make of it. _What the hell was Cameron Meyer doing in David Jones' office?_

John felt Sherlock's hand steal into his own and give him a reassuring shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was easy in his mind. John was not sure whether he had seen what was only too obvious from his position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that Cameron might at any moment observe it. In his own mind John had determined that if he were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, he would at once spring out, throw his jacket over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Sherlock. But Cameron never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the author's argument. At least, John thought, when he has finished the document and the cigarette he will go to his room; but before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable development which turned their thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times John had seen Cameron look at his watch, and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at such a strange time never occurred to him until a faint sound reached his ears from the hallway door. Cameron dropped his papers and sat rigidly in his chair. The sound came again, and then the door opened.

"Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. John had closed the slit between the curtains as Cameron's face turned in their direction, but now he ventured very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigarette still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric light, there stood the small blond figure of Dr. Martin. Her breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

"Well," said Cameron, "you've made me lose a good night's rest, my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it?"

The woman shook her head. "What do you want from me?" she asked coldly. However, she couldn't keep the fear out of her voice completely.

"Pull yourself together!" he said. "Now, let us get down to business." He took a note from the pile he had put on the desk. "It is just by coincidence that I happen to know of your business with Mr. Smith; Mrs. Smith was very forthcoming when we spent some time together, you see. They used to make some money with it, you know. They were professionals; seducing the rich and the famous and then making them pay for their intimacy. I actually slipped into their room before the police arrived."

This made Dr. Martin cringe slightly.

"Oh, don't worry. I didn't kill them," he explained. "I have five letters in my possession which compromise you and your business activities. I want to sell them. You want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price." Cameron laughed. "I assure you I wouldn't harm a fly, but every man has his business and what am I to do? I will put the price well within your means. Let's say 5.000 pounds per letter, and I will leave you alone. I warn you though, my dear, if you act contrary to reason, I will sadly enough find myself constrained to make your affairs public."

"I could hardly pay you 15.000 pounds. 25.000 pounds is absolutely impossible, I assure you. I told Smith the same," Dr. Martin answered coldly.

"Well, considering your position as a new counselor at the Clinic, your salary probably isn't that high at the moment. I understand that. I can imagine that your expenses are quite large, since you're dealing with high society. Your appearance has to represent the business, of course. Expensive suits, jewelry. And your wealthy lover murdered under your very eyes. No, you find yourself in a pitiful situation, indeed," Cameron said sarcastically and smiled an evil smile. "I am no monster, you know. I am willing to help you. I will sell you the letters for the 15.000 pounds you offered, if you are willing to comply."

"What do you want?" she asked in a strained voice.

Cameron's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously. "Nothing you weren't willing to give Mr. Smith before, my darling. If you will be at my disposal for the remaining weekends of counseling, and possible forthcoming workshops which I might attend, I will forget about the other 10.000 pounds. You see, I am a reasonable man."

So this was the explanation of the mysterious letter the police had found in David Jones' office. It had been Dr. Martin he had seen earlier that evening, opening the outer door of the office for Cameron. It had been Dr. Martin who had diverted the missing money, and that was why Mr. and Mrs. Smith had tried to blackmail her. Now, Cameron was taking advantage of the situation. John was baffled.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Martin yielded to the conditions after careful deliberation. She agreed grudgingly, but coldly and with an air of calculation, nevertheless. "Well, the ball is in your court. Show me your paces," she purred and pressed her body against Cameron's.

He didn't need to be told twice. Hungrily, he took hold of her waist with both hands, and covered her with hot kisses. She moaned with - probably feigned - pleasure as a response. When he started to unbutton her blouse, she drew back.

"Not here," she objected. "Come to my consulting room."

Reluctantly, he allowed her to free herself from his grip. She moved with an inviting swing of her hips to the door and held it open for him. He smiled sardonically and followed her outside.

John stared after them in disbelief. As soon as they left the room, Sherlock slipped across to the safe with perfect calmness. He quickly examined the papers in the safe and closed the door properly afterwards. With swift, silent steps, Sherlock was at the outer door. He drew the key from the door, shooed John outside, passed through after him, and locked it on the outside. "This way, John," he said. "We'd better go through the garden where they've removed the snow. We'll leave no footprints there. I don't want to take the chance of meeting anyone in the corridors again. It's too dark outside to be seen. There are no lights in this part of the garden, and that will work in our favour. It seems we'll have to use the balcony again."

"Our room is on the second floor, Sherlock," John objected. He tried to keep his mind off the painful scene he had witnessed a few moments earlier. Apparently this marriage education workshop attracted people who had problems with sex addiction.

"The wall next to our balcony is covered in ivy. The stem is old and has strong limbs," Sherlock replied.

"Apparently you thought of everything," John muttered darkly.

"It's a piece of cake! You will give me your hand and I will give you mine. Just try to not break your neck, will you?" Sherlock teased him.

John scowled at Sherlock. "Funny, Sherlock!" he grumbled.

Sherlock smiled one of his charming smiles and cast a swift glance of triumph at John. "It looks like the fog around one mystery is clearing."

* * *

><p>In bed John was tossing and turning. Adrenaline was coursing through him. He was still flushed with the excitement of their latest adventure. He had to confess that he had enjoyed the burglaries more than he should. Sherlock was weaving his web around the culprits and both the murderer and the blackmailer were doomed to fall into his trap, sooner or later. John felt the thrill of anticipation. The case was near its peak.<p>

Aside from this obvious source of excitement, he couldn't fail to notice that he had also been aroused by their physical contact that day. The thoughts which he had carefully tried to push to the back of his mind all evening returned. He desperately needed to clarify them. Resolutely, John took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. He was going to sort out his mingled feelings, once and for all. He called the events of the evening to mind. They shared two proper kisses. The first one had been gentle and careful, even if John had been pinned to the wall. The tingling of his skin had been sensational. He had never experienced anything like it before, and he was a fairly experienced kisser. The second one hadn't been gentle at all. It had been hungry and sensual. Two attributes he wouldn't normally connect with Sherlock, but he had been most thunderstruck by his own reaction. Until very recently, they had never ever shared the slightest physical contact, but now, he had kissed Sherlock back, properly, on the mouth. He darkly recalled that the kissing had deepened afterwards, and there had been tongues involved. Sherlock had tasted pleasant, wine and a flavour of his own. John certainly had acquired a taste for it immediately. Luckily, they had those burglary plans that night. John wasn't so sure whether he could have controlled himself otherwise.

When it came to Sherlock he had always been a lost cause, of course. He had been in Sherlock's orbit from the very first second they met. He had been drawn to him, mentally, ever since. It was like magnetism.

In the beginning he had hoped that his positive reaction to Sherlock's seductive "new self" was some sort of stress syndrome, caused by the pressure of the case. Now John realised that he had never reacted to stress in the way others did: his tremor and his limp had vanished when he met Sherlock and started their rather adventurous life.

Deeply stirred, he thought of one of Sherlock's maxims.

_Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains – however improbable – must be the truth._

He heaved a silent groan when the revelation hit him. If he was honest with himself, there was at least one conclusion he was forced to draw at the end of this day: He had to admit that he was not only mentally, but also physically attracted to his best friend. He had no idea how, why, or when that happened, but he had started to react to him. He had never been attracted to another man before, and this felt strange, to put it mildly. At the moment, he didn't even dare to think about the dreaded four-letter L-word. If this was just a game to his friend, John was screwed now.

Next to John, the detective had fallen asleep, content and worn out from the night's work. In the dark, John could only make out his features faintly, but he heard Sherlock's steady and regular breathing.

Anne's statement as well as Howard's kept running through his mind. "_Sherlock does love you, you know. He's just socially awkward." "This is about true love then?" "The truth hurts."_

He heaved another sigh. In the end it came down to two questions. First: Was John willing to find out the absolute truth, no matter what the cost? Second: Was he going to trust Sherlock Holmes with his heart as well as his life?

Was it love or just a game?

After some restless hours in which weird dreams about entangled, naked limbs alternated with sleepless periods, during which John pondered the matter carefully, he arrived at a decision.

To hell with it! What was he afraid of?

He never felt better than when he was together with his best friend. The friendship that lay beneath would never be at stake, he was convinced of that. Hadn't Sherlock said so himself? Fortune favours the brave. John had suddenly realized that they'd reached the point of no return quite some time ago.

He decided to take a leap of faith and let the chips fall where they may.

Once he came to this decision, he was at peace.

John had such a deep respect for Sherlock's extraordinary qualities that he always deferred to his wishes, even when he least understood them – like the necessity of being engaged for the case. But now his instincts were aroused. The science of seduction was a subject Sherlock apparently was at home in – despite his limited experience. However, John was no stranger to it either, and he would be going one step further. Reaching for true intimacy.

It was time to take matters in his own hands and to face destiny.

Let him be my master elsewhere, John thought, I am at last his equal in this.


	16. The expression of affection

**This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest! Thank you so much. You're doing a great job.**

**Thanks to all of you for your continous interest and support. Please review and tell me what you think. Any suggestions? PM me.  
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Chapter sixteen

Dawn was breaking. The sun had not yet risen completely and wafts of mist were lingering above the thick blanket of snow. It had started snowing the day before and not stopped throughout the night. Maybe, they were going to have a white Christmas after all, John thought. For the past fifteen minutes, he had watched Sherlock sleeping. He sat on the study desk in their bedroom, sipping his coffee and pondering the events of the previous night. Fortunately, there were tea and coffee facilities in every bedroom. Beginning a morning without coffee was an absolute no-go. Especially this morning, he needed the caffeine badly. He felt absolutely whacked. John had barely slept four hours that night, which was hardly surprising in the light of his recent revelation. On the other hand, he also felt relieved. He finally had taken a decision.

He wasn't yet completely convinced that he welcomed the new situation. The prospect of a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes of all people was still terrifying to John at times, because it was new and unknown. He knew the attractive features of Sherlock's eccentric character, and he knew his friend's dark aspects as well. He had no idea how Sherlock would cope with a serious romantic involvement. Then again, he was good at being "involved" with Sherlock. He could handle him, whether he was being very charming or extremely annoying. However, why someone like Sherlock would favour someone like John over someone like Victor Trevor, remained a complete mystery to him.

But John was a man of his word, even if he'd only given it to himself, and he wasn't a coward. He had never been interested in another man before. He had considered himself straight all his life. Sherlock, however, was unique. He had to confess that he had very secretly, and very unconsciously, been afraid for some time now, that this might happen in the end. He really did fall for Sherlock the moment he met him, and Sherlock had immediately responded to him favourably. No, there had been no love at first sight, but it had started there and then, and it had been visible. Naturally, Mycroft had been the first to recognise the small changes in his brothers' behaviour; then Greg Lestrade, the members of the Yard… Mrs. Hudson had never thought anything else of them. There probably was no person in whole London who believed them to be anything other than a couple by now - certainly not among their acquaintances.

Most certainly no longer, since he was wearing an engagement ring and his dear future brother-in-law, for lack of anything better to do, had told Queen and Country, which was a clever move on his part, John had to admit. Since that moment, John knew he was as good as checkmated. The ring prompted another question: What to do with it afterwards? A relationship with Sherlock Holmes was one thing – probably something close to a suicide mission – an engagement was something else. He wasn't sure if he was prepared to take such a step yet. Well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it, John thought. One step at the time.

Starting with the expression of affection.

After some hesitation, he took a deep breath, set down his coffee mug, moved over to the bed and knelt down next to it. This was the time to seize his chance, to start putting his plan into action_. _

"In for a penny, in for a pound. Off you go, John!" he encouraged himself.

Then, he carefully reached for his friend's curly hair, the only part of Sherlock visible outside the sheets he had rolled himself up in. "Sherlock?" John whispered softly.

No response.

He stroked Sherlock's hair tenderly and called again. "Sherlock?"

It took several more minutes before the detective slowly returned to the realm of the living, stretching. Drowsily, he emerged from under the sheets and lifted his head far enough, to have a good view of John, supporting himself on his elbows. "Jawn?"

John cleared his throat and smiled shyly. "Good morning, Sherlock," he replied.

"Whatisit?" Sherlock slurred, clearly having difficulties to keep his eyes open. "Somethinghappened?"

John couldn't suppress a smile at the slurred speech and sleepy face of his friend. Strange thing was that Sherlock could go on for days without sleeping properly, but when he finally did sleep, it was a sound sleep and one could hardly wake him up. Now, he looked like a little, lost child. This vulnerable aspect of his character was so unlike Sherlock's resourceful, arrogant and self-assertive side that John often had asked himself how his friend got along before they had met each other – without the anchor who helped him not to float away and reminded him to eat, sleep and behave.

"No, luv. Nothing," John answered amused. "I'm going to swim laps in the pool. I have sore muscles from our night's work. Active recovery, you know."

He could have left a post-it note for him, of course, but that wouldn't have done the trick. John planned on giving him a subject for his deductions from now on. Let's see what he could make of it.

"The medical name for this condition is delayed onset muscle soreness, or DOMS, and it is thought to be due in large part to inflammation of the muscle as a result of micro tears of the muscle fibres. Treatment of sore muscles after exercise is focused on reducing the inflammation and allowing the sore muscle to heal properly. The simplest and most reliable treatment for sore muscles is rest. Most people with muscle soreness will improve with no specific treatment within five to seven days. Some simple activity, known as 'active recovery,' can be helpful during this phase of treatment. Active recovery stimulates blood flow to the muscles, improves circulation in the muscles, and helps reduce muscle pain," Sherlock rattled off automatically.

He didn't look much more awake than before. Probably he had collected those facts and stored them away in his mind palace for further reference.

John couldn't help but feel amazed at him. He really shouldn't. John was accustomed to Sherlock's brilliance. But every now and then, he caught him off guard, and he was speechless again with admiration, the sort admiration, he had felt in the early days of their acquaintance. The one that knocked him sideways a bit.

"Right, genius. Try to get some more sleep. I'll see you at breakfast," he answered. John quickly bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. He ruffled Sherlock's hair one more time and swiftly brushed along his cheekbones with his fingertips as he removed his hand. Then, he quickly left for the swimming pool with a content smile playing on his lips, leaving a confused-looking consulting detective behind.

That hadn't gone too badly.

* * *

><p>The pool was situated in a large and light room on the main floor. The floor was tiled with small, light blue and white mosaic pieces. A steady, subdued light illuminated the room. Three of the walls were provided with huge panorama windows which probably revealed a magnificent view over the formal garden by daylight. Now, the artificial light from the room was reflected in them. The water reflected the soft light as well. Even inside the pool, lights had been embedded in the floor and basin walls. The whole room bathed in soft light and the variations of light and shade created a relaxed and even somewhat romantic atmosphere. The furnishing of the room was elegant and delicate again, but somehow John preferred the more intimate atmosphere of the Turkish bath in London he and Sherlock visited regularly. Sherlock had told him that the Turkish bath in the Clinic was as exquisite as the swimming pool, but he, too, preferred their normal London spot.<p>

"You are an early bird."

John jolted out of his thoughts. _Oh for God's sake. Not him again._

Howard's presence had apparently escaped John's notice while he examined the room. Howard supported himself against the pool edge with his elbows, dabbling his hands in the water nonchalantly and treading water.

"I could say the same about you," John replied. For a moment he was in two minds about whether to turn around and leave again.

Howard closely observed John, who, standing only in his bathing suit, felt exposed. "You look awful. Did he keep you up all night?" Howard finally asked playfully.

Sort of, John thought.

Instead of answering, John decided to pay no further attention to Howard's remark or to Howard himself. He jumped off the edge of the pool and did what he had intended to do - swim. On the other side of the pool, Howard, however, was still watching him with a steadfast gaze.

While John stoically swam his laps, a routine from his army days, an idea came into his head. He couldn't let this chance slip. Although he was a little doubtful about his own plan and fairly convinced that Sherlock wouldn't approve of it, he decided to act on his hunch.

He submerged for the last fifteen metres and surfaced next to Howard at the pool's edge, still keeping a "safe distance" from him. Just in case.

"And what made you crawl out of bed so early this morning?" John asked as casually as possible.

"I always exercise before breakfast. Besides, Grace was especially demanding last night. She kept me awake for some time," Howard laughed one of his appalling laughs.

Grit your teeth and get to it, John thought. "You always exercise before breakfast? Remarkable. Well, you look healthy, of course."

"You noticed," Howard insinuated.

"I use my eyes," John replied. Although Sherlock would probably disagree with this statement. He could literally hear him sneering _"You see, but you never observe, John"_.

"Well, I travel a lot and the hotels have pretty good facilities, nowadays. So, it's no problem to keep fit," Howard shrugged and looked at John intensely. "You're in good shape, too."

Howard wasn't an idiot, but John knew that he was self-interested and slick. He was a womanising type, except that he wasn't chasing women. Howard wanted to be the centre of attention and he was looking for men who were stylish, congenial and willing. He also liked them smart. Not the type of astuteness that was characteristic of Sherlock, but the cheerful and witty sort. John had that and he certainly had the looks Howard was seeking in men. This certainly helped, smoothing out the questioning and getting the answers.

"I…yes. You do what you can," John said. "So you travel regularly? Just in Britain or internationally as well?"

"Internationally. Europe, Asia, and Latin-America. Beautiful men there, by the way. I actually haven't travelled in Britain for three years now. Do you travel?" Howard asked.

If that was true, he wasn't the man they were looking for.

"More and more frequently, yes. Sherlock has a profitable business."

"Of course, you work together. He never takes his eyes off you, does he? Well, I can't blame him, of course. I'd guard you like gold, too, if I were your boyfriend."

"Fiancé," John replied automatically. Where he usually kept telling everyone that he wasn't actually gay, he told everyone now, that they were actually engaged. Sometimes, fact was stranger than fiction.

"No man should make the mistake of getting married. They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake," Howard recited.

John smiled faintly. "Funny thing is, I was married before. She really had the sweetest disposition, she was perfect. But we were not made for each other. I was absolutely amazed by Sherlock. It's not the official certificate that will commit me to him. I'm already bound to him."

"Ah, I forgot, this is about true love. Forgive me," Howard said, smiling ironically at John's remark. "I've been married before, too. Got a divorce five years ago. You know it's not good in my business to stay single. It's all about appearances. In the end I found a wife in Grace who is smart enough to look away when I'm….let me put it this way, when I'm otherwise engaged." Howard turned his head and watched him narrowly. "I'm not trying to talk you out of marriage, you know. I told you I think he's very attractive in his own way. I'm just offering you a different perspective."

"You're offering sex," John replied bluntly.

Howard grinned. "You wouldn't regret it."

"I'm still flattered but I'm also still not interested," John said, polite but determined.

"Pity," Howard replied, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "Well, your performance yesterday certainly looked promising."

John couldn't argue with that, and he definitely would look into the matter when they were home again. All in good time. "I'm never bored with him, I assure you," he said deliberately ambiguous.

"Well, I'm not giving up yet, John. Think about it."

"Don't get your hopes up, Howard," John replied, latching on to the pool edge and getting out of the pool. "See you later."

* * *

><p>When John entered the breakfast room he felt like a new man. The early exercise and a long, hot shower did wonders. He spotted Sherlock at their usual table. Ben and Anne had joined him. They sat next to each other neither talking nor looking at each other. Apparently they had had a row. John knew the symptoms only too well. Next to them, Sherlock looked miserable, obviously just keeping himself from sharing his thoughts on the matter with their table neighbours. The detective chewed his croissant unenthusiastically, gazing at the table in abstraction. John smiled fondly at the sight. This was Sherlock's second "masterful self" – severe self-control in socially delicate situations. He swiftly went across the room to their table, greeted Anne and Ben and sat down opposite his friend.<p>

Sherlock's face brightened. "Thank God. You were my last resort," he whispered and rolled his eyes.

John grinned, reached for Sherlock's hand and kissed it very gently. "Good morning, again."

Sherlock didn't flinch but cast an astonished look at John. The moment of confusion on his face wasn't noticeable to anyone who didn't know him very well. But John did and by now, he could read Sherlock's face like a book when he caught him off guard. He had his tells – the slight twitching of his mouth, the quick raising of his eyebrows, the brief frown on his forehead and the brightening of his eyes, burning with curiosity.

He quickly examined John. "I dimly remember you told me about swimming laps. I see that it set you up."

John didn't let go of his hand, but caressed it carefully with his thumb. "Yes, it did. Unfortunately your hated rival had the same brainwave."

"Honestly, John. What am I to do with you?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Keep a weather eye on me?" John replied.

"And you tell me that you have to keep your eyes glued to me all the time," he said in mock indignation.

John grinned. "Apparently you're rubbing off on me."

Sherlock sighed. "I wish I would."

"No, you don't. Not really. You wouldn't be the "only one in the world" any more and I wouldn't be your totally amazed audience," John countered cleverly. "See, lose-lose-situation."

For a moment Sherlock didn't seem to know what to say. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "You're developing a certain vein of canny humour, John. I must learn to guard myself against it."

John's grin broadened as a response. "By the way, I've had a conversation with the person in question," he continued in a low voice, leaning across the table.

"Surprise me," Sherlock replied with an eager face.

"Well, we've had the usual chit-chat about me being gorgeous. I shall not bother you with the details," John started.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Well, I am and you know it," John continued self-confident, his grin never fading. "Important thing is, I've asked him about his travelling habits and he told me that he didn't travel within Britain for the last three years. He only travels internationally. If Mycroft can confirm this, and he was nowhere near the crime scenes at that time, we can delete him from our list of suspects."

The detective shook his head. "You know that I really should give you a good telling-off for sneaking away and investigating on your own account," Sherlock said with a serious face.

John knitted his brows. Not that Sherlock wasn't continuously sneaking away and investigating on his own account, causing his family and friends to worry constantly.

Sherlock looked intently at John. His expression softened after a moment and he squeezed his friend's hand. "But I must confess that this was excellently done. Many people would have done worse. Honour to whom honour is due."

John's heart took a leap at the warmth in Sherlock's voice. It was not often that he praised someone, and therefore, his words were even the more valuable to John. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sherlock coughed slightly. "So, he made approaches to you again?" he continued after a moment. "My kissing experience didn't impress him, then?"

"Oh, I think it did impress him. Only with a different effect," John replied.

"You don't seem to be affected," Sherlock said.

"By your kissing experience or by Howard's approaches?" John asked as innocently as possible, but with a deliberately flirtatious tone in his voice .

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly recovered. John could tell that he had to adjust to John's flirting mode.

"You tell me," Sherlock countered.

_Good one!_

His friend didn't belie John's expectations in this game of "brainy flirting". It actually was great fun, and John started to cherish the queasy feeling in his stomach, he felt, whenever Sherlock was considered. He hadn't felt like this in a while, and although it happened unexpectedly, it was welcome now.

John smiled. "Ah, but that would spoil the party, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock frowned. "Spoil the party?"

John nodded. "Yes, you like the challenge of figuring things out. Applying your methods."

"Deducing you?" Sherlock asked in bewilderment, because he knew that John didn't like to be deduced – or worse, deduced out loud.

"Whenever you like," John returned.

"You don't like it when I tell you things without being asked," Sherlock said, confused.

"Well, this is different, isn't it? Because we've talked about it in the first place and you could ask me to allow you to deduce this tiny, little thing about me."

Sherlock looked at him with a curious expression. "I cannot possibly deduce the effect by just looking at you. You know that would mean I'd have to observe you in Howard's presence as well as conducting a counter-experiment. You could be affected by either or both events – or none."

In other words, he'd have to kiss him again.

John thought, that it was a smart move from Sherlock to ask his permission to kiss him like that, but John knew him well enough, and he would not let Sherlock trick him into telling him a simple yes or no. "Yes" you may conduct a counter-experiment, so "yes" you may kiss me again.

"You haven't asked me yet _if_ I will let you deduce me, after all. I just said that I _might_ allow you to deduce me _if _you'd ask me first," John parried.

Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. Usually, he was far too curious as to blow his chance of getting to know something. "If you don't want me to know how Howard's sexual advances affect you, it's fine," he replied calmly.

Apparently, Sherlock wouldn't give in easily either, in spite of trying to find out, "I want to know what effect my kiss had on you." John didn't expect him to. It seemed they would continue dancing for a while. That was fine with him. His own plans for seducing his friend were going nicely. Although "seduction" didn't really cover it. It was never about the physical seduction that Sherlock was so adept at alone. It was about reaching true intimacy and finding out whether their relationship could develop into what John hoped.

Throughout the entire breakfast, he didn't let go of Sherlock's hand once, and Sherlock didn't try once to pull away either.

* * *

><p>As always, Dr. Martin was already impatiently waiting for them to start the next group session. This morning they would be reading their love letters to each other and discussing them. After the events of the night, John had intuitively decided to rewrite his letter utterly in the early hours of the day.<p>

"John, Sherlock, maybe you would like to start today?" Dr. Martin addressed them immediately.

"Why does it has to be us?" John whispered miserably.

Sherlock stood up and pulled John to his feet. "Anne and Ben obviously had a row this morning and are not talking to each other and Dr. Martin has given up her hope for the rest. Rightfully so, as I told you."

John rolled his eyes. "Great, if I had known that, I would have started an argument this morning myself."

"Too late for that and not very convincing. She saw us snogging on the staircase and thinks we had make up sex last night."

"Right. I forgot about that part," John sighed.

Sherlock cast an swift look at John and smiled knowingly. "No, you wouldn't."

Probably not.

"You wouldn't either," John countered.

"I do not doubt it," Sherlock breathed.

Dr. Martin waved them into two chairs, which were standing in the middle of the room, facing each other.

John plucked up the courage to start. Sherlock looked at him, with keen eyes and with a curious expression on his face. He assumed his thinking pose, the "sitting version"- he bent forward, elbows on his knees, and put his fingertips together under his chin, giving John his undivided attention.

John cleared his throat and shot a quick glance at Sherlock who met his look with an eager face, still smiling knowingly. There was this air of haughtiness that John didn't exactly like but did find sexy all the same. He blushed a bit, not as muchas he used to do. He decided that he wasn't doing so badly considering the circumstances.

"Well, let's see," he started. "Sherlock, First of all, I want to apologise beforehand that my writing is terrible as always. My letter probably ended up being too long and too incoherent. I also might have committed the sin of writing sentimental stuff. It is very likely that you will find it tedious and be bored very much halfway through it." He probably was the only one who announced his letter first.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Go on. I'll try to survive it."

"Meeting you was fate. Necessity brought us together. Thinking about it, the fact that Mike thought we might make a good couple in the first place is definitely very remarkable. On the surface, there have never been two people more different than we are. When I first met you, you were certainly arrogant and quietly rude. You looked about twelve, were clearly a bit public school, and you behaved in an imperious and pompous way that infuriated me more than once."

John paused from time to time and looked from under his eyelids at Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced when it came to the public school bit while John's comment about his behaviour made him smile.

"And, yeah, I was definitely convinced that you were probably mad. But you were also strangely likeable and fascinating. In the early days of our acquaintance I thought you were a strange child who didn't understand social conventions and didn't care about being polite. Your bluntness often caught me off guard, but you didn't mean to be offensive. You just said what you thought. Naturally, I was mesmerized by your keen mind. Your ability to see right through everyone and everything in seconds intrigued me immensely. My interest in you increased and deepened, and before long, I wanted to get to know you better and unravel the enigma that is you."

John cleared his throat. "In short, you were charming and I was hooked. Apparently Mike has a better knowledge of human nature than I gave him credit for. Remind me to thank him for this cranky idea of his properly one day."

Sherlock smiled faintly and nodded affirmatively.

"Although fate already put things on the right track, becoming your friend was my choice. However, it wasn't really a very difficult decision, and was taken quickly. Come to think of it, we actually became inseparable within twenty-four hours and have been ever since. You text and I come running. We didn't always embrace this chemistry between us. Before we knew each other, we were two independent men. After the day we met, we had to learn that we suddenly needed each other in many ways. That wasn't always easy and not necessarily what we wanted. Miraculously, in time, we got the hang of it. Aside from my obvious admiration for your skills and your brilliance, I started to find your personality dazzling. In our early days you found it easy not to care, or so I thought. I had to learn that appearances can be deceiving, though. One day you were compelled by certain events to realize, that you did, despite yourself, care and feel. It was a hard thing for you to accept, but you came to terms with it in the end. You occasionally opened up and gave me insights to what lies behind your cold mask: the best man."

There was a mix of emotions on Sherlock's face. Acknowledgement of what was true, pride in John's continuous admiration for him and, just maybe, hurt. For a moment he looked a bit uncomfortable about John's words, then, his face softened again. Those words brought back memories

John took a deep breath and tried to speak with a firm voice. "Falling in love with you, however, was beyond my control. Time has brought my heart to you." John was glad that his voice didn't tremble.

Sherlock leaned forward, a sign of increasing interest. His expression tensed.

"In the past, people made you believe that you were better off alone, safer. You divorced yourself from feelings. Back then, painful things happened to us. We drifted apart. It took time to figure out that there would be forgiveness between us in the future. We understood that we had to let our history go if we wanted to move forward. It seems that sometimes two people who are meant for each other are the last two to realise it. We never wanted to say it's love, but sometimes what you get is so much better than what you wanted in the first place. We became more than friends at last. In the end it only made us stronger. We didn't break and we didn't burn. You were the one who broke my heart, and you were the one who fixed it again."

Those words brought back even more memories, the most painful ones. An expression of guilt flashed over Sherlock's face, followed by a flash of hurt. As John kept speaking the memories of hours of darkness and pain were replaced by memories of relief and gratitude - a reflection of the emotional side of the Reichenbach case and its aftermath in a nutshell.

John smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, just to be sure. "I know it's hard to let me love you and it takes a lot of courage, but let me say this, there is nothing you could say or do that would drive me away from you. If anything, I know exactly what I am committing myself to. I love everything about you - your mischievous smile, the low baritone sound of your voice, your piercing eyes, so hypnotic and mesmerizing, beautiful to gaze into, and yet never revealing everything to me. I love your gentle touch and the warmth I feel at your side. I love the way you enter a room, walking tall in your perfectly tailored suits, radiating self-confidence, absorbing everyone and everything and automatically attracting people's attention. I also love you when you look about twelve; I love you when you're clearly a bit public school; I love your arrogant and pompous behaviour; I love your rude bluntness; I love the times when boredom drives you mad and makes you edgy … I love all of your bad manners. I love your bad qualities because I also love your "Better Self" – your vulnerability, your insecurities, your best civility. If I don't love you at your worst then I don't deserve you at your best. That is as simple as it gets. You can depend on my love and friendship forever."

The expression of surprise lingered on Sherlock's face for a moment. He was looking even more intently at John if possible, showing an obvious interest in what he had to say, and apparently struggling to keep up a pretence of remaining calm, emotionless, and detached. Again, John's trained eyes were able to tell because he knew where to look and only because Sherlock was unprepared for John's words. A second later, his face was unreadable again and any random person in the room would probably have stated that Sherlock's heart wasn't likely to be easily touched.

Except for Anne, maybe, who had started to weep again softly in the background.

"You've, more or less, asked for my hand in marriage and I, sort of, said yes," John continued.

Sherlock smirked smugly at the thought of the proposal.

Despite himself, John started to smile, too. "When you marry, you are telling your partner: this is who I am. I am now your mate for life. I will not give up on us. No matter what. This road will not be an easy one to travel, but I'm prepared to do anything to make this work.

I will feed my brain, to nurture my own continued development as a person. I apologize in advance for my seeing but probably never observing well enough for your taste.

I will not stop following my own way and showing up for my own life. I told you if I did so, I'd lose my independence and you'd start to find me boring and dull. But I will never love my job more than I love you. I will keep supporting you the way I always did. In this autonomy, I am not distancing myself from you or our life. You are the most important person in my life. Nothing will ever change that.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if we had never met. It would have been certainly simpler... maybe easier... but it also would be incomplete – and rather boring.

So if you don't mind, I am planning on having you around for the next one hundred years or so," John ended his letter and looked expectantly at Sherlock. His heart was racing in his chest. His hands, however, were perfectly steady.

"Well, that was heart-melting at times," Dr. Martin said. Judging by the look of her face, it had also been confusing at times. "Sherlock, what do you say?"

All eyes were fixed on the detective who clearly was not taking to it like a duck to water.

"Err… well…" Sherlock was searching for words that wouldn't come to him easily.

"Take heart!" Dr. Martin encouraged him with a hint of impatience in her voice.

"…I wasn't bored," he finally said.

Ten pairs of eyes looked at him in utter disbelief. Anne slightly smiled, knowingly.

Sherlock leaned towards John and added, whispering, "However, that last sentence doesn't make sense, John. It is technically impossible for me to stay with you for the next hundred years. Besides, it is highly likely that I will not die in bed. As for the rest, I am willing to admit that your poetry has slightly improved which was to be expected. I told you I am much more inspiring."

John, on the other hand, could tell that Sherlock wasn't detached at all. He was deeply moved and confused ,and returned to the flirtatious tone in order to regain control of the situation that had slipped slightly out of his control since the early morning hours. John wasn't intimidated. "I know you will find this hideous but I will see to it that you die an utterly boring, and awfully mundane, natural death. Preferably after a very long, healthy life when you are very, very old," John replied. "Besides, death only ends a life. It doesn't end a relationship. As for the rest, you are very inspiring. I think you're quite extraordinary."

"Am I? Well, I vaguely recall that you gave me a pet name this morning," he replied playfully.

"Did I? Must have been the sleep deprivation," John pretended not to remember.

"Could have been the effect of something else," Sherlock countered, smiling.

"Possibly," John answered innocently, looking steadily at Sherlock's eyes.

Their audience looked nervously from one man to the other. The atmosphere of electricity in the room had been continuously rising for several minutes. Howard, in particular, was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Sherlock looked at John with the smallest hint of astonishment. His curiosity was definitely increasing.

In fact, John thought that all of this was going quite well indeed.

Then it was Sherlock's turn to read his letter. Meanwhile, the detective seemed to be his masterful self once more. He looked squarely into John's eyes, smiling teasingly. "Well, John. Neither of us is the talkative type when it comes to feelings, which causes the inevitable tensions between us. You told me once that you appreciate it when I make the effort to express myself. Let me try to do so now."

Sherlock stood up, retrieved his letter from one of his trouser pockets and pushed back his chair with one of his feet. He never once averted his gaze from John's face. Then, he took John's hand, ring and all, in his own and knelt down before him.

And John held his breath.


	17. Making progress

**This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. You are the best. Thanks again! All mistakes are mine. Btw, all chapters up till chapter ten, plus chapters 15,16 and 17, are betad and in perfect English now :) I will update the remaining chapters, too, as soon as they are betad.  
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**Thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed the previous chapters. It means a lot! If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Is there anything you don't like? Please tell me all the same. I want to improve. If you like the story, please, recommend it to others. Btw, I'd like to know what you think of the summary. Any suggestions how to improve it?  
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**I couldn't resist to try a cliffhanger in the last chapter. Sorry! But it certainly worked :)  
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** Stephanie: Thanks for suggesting the counselling method of "The eulogy and the casket". I will try it in the next chapter and hope you will like it.  
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** WarmGlow: Thank you for your questions and suggestions considering some of the previous chapters. I will update them.  
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**Everyone: Okay, I have made Sherlock Holmes write a love letter. I sincerely hope I have done his character justice. It's like writing a love story into the theorem of Phytagoras :) **Please have mercy on me!**  
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><p><span>Chapter seventeen <span>

Sherlock looked intently at his friend. The determined expression on his face alarmed John slightly and he was on tenterhooks. He sat on the edge of his seat. Unwittingly, he gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"John," Sherlock began, "my proposal was not really becoming to a gentleman courting. Please, let me use this opportunity to declare myself further."

_Oh. My. God._

For a moment, John thought of their audience and desperately wished the ground would open and swallow him up. Then he reminded himself of the bargain he had made with himself – to let go of the need to control everything and to allow the relationship to unfold naturally. He refused to back out of it, even if his mad friend was taking a quantum leap again. John took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

The mix of emotions must have shown on his face for Sherlock squeezed John's hand now on his own account. "Don't be afraid," Sherlock whispered soothingly, locking eyes with John.

John could see that this was hard for Sherlock, too. He took courage from this thought. "Please, go on," he heard himself muttering under his breath.

The audience was as quiet as a mouse.

"John," Sherlock repeated his name and smiled sheepishly. "I know I'm not the easiest person to live with. I am also very well aware of my shortcomings in connection with our romantic involvement. However, the fact that you are still with me, after all I put you through, must mean something."

John thought that it probably meant he was as mad as a hatter, too. But that was fine with him and didn't really come as a revelation.

"I know that I have been a lousy flat mate, a difficult friend, and, I will most certainly be an awful husband. I am truly sorry for all the times I upset you. When it comes to emotions, I tend to mess things up," he said and paused for a moment, sighing. "Give me work; give me problems; give me riddles and puzzles to solve: these are my metier. No one is my master there and very few are my equals. Relationships on the other hand are a minefield. There are expectations to be met – implicit, various expectations. I'm oblivious to them. I'm skating on thin ice in the area of relationships," Sherlock said, grimacing, with a vague wave of his hand.

John couldn't suppress a fond smile. Since the day they met, Sherlock had really tried his best to improve in that area. It started unwittingly when they first visited 221B Baker Street. John was surprised by the mess inside, and Sherlock clumsily did his best to rearrange his belongings, seeking his approval. It was only a small gesture, but it showed that Sherlock wanted to improve.

At the sight of John's fond expression, Sherlock's tense face relaxed. It seemed to remind him why he felt the relationship mattered at all. "I abandoned the concept of having a relationship entirely after my last one came to nothing. I didn't think about it again until I met you. I told myself, I would never love again, but as much as I didn't want to, you came along and made me. You walked into my life and showed me another way. Since that day, you have touched my life in many ways. I enjoy doing things with you and spending time with you. The influence you have on me amazes me daily. You are my best friend, and I value very highly the bond we share," Sherlock said with a serious face.

John listened to Sherlock's word with bated breath. He knew that it was exceedingly difficult, most of the time even impossible, for him to be open and to let down his defences. He was terrified to let someone else get close enough to him to see his innermost thoughts and secrets. Sherlock resisted most of the time, putting up an invisible wall in an attempt to protect himself from that sort of exposure, and from rejection and hurt. However, as much as this wall might protect him, it also shut him off from his own feelings. He blocked emotions, even though he was aware that sooner or later those stashed-away pains would inevitably leak out. It had been like that in the case of "The Woman", and in the case of "The Hound". At least, that was John's had taken great pains to write this letter; the effort he put into it was admirable. Despite the audience in the background, these moments of "soul striptease" were intensely intimate. John felt a warm feeling spreading in his stomach. He longed to hug his friend at the very least.

"The day I had to leave you behind I tried to harden my heart against the feelings which I had developed towards you. Back then, it was necessary. Believe me, when I say I've never adopted a more difficult course. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It certainly did. I missed the little things; I missed everything about you. I found that work remained the best antidote to sorrow. I am distinctly aware though that your sufferings were many times greater than mine, for I knew the truth and you didn't. Please, understand that the business with Jim was nothing but an ordeal, a trial of patience. I know that I was playing with fire. But this struggle has defined me and made me realize my place in the world." Sherlock paused for a moment and looked John straight in the eye. "Mysteriously, through all those rough times, you remained faithful and loyal, and you forgave me in the end. I need you to know that I am grateful for that."

"I do," John whispered, barely audible, caressing Sherlock's hand with his thumb. "We've passed the acid test."

Sherlock slowly nodded, smiling faintly. "While writing this letter, I'm reminding myself of some of the reasons why I fell for you. You made me a better man, even when I did not want to be a good one. You are so kind – you enjoy being nice to people and caring for others. You always care about doing the right thing. You're interested in our health and well-being – well, someone has to be and I must confess that the task is safer in your hands," Sherlock said, grinning.

John couldn't help but respond by chuckling about the last bit, which eased the tension for a moment.

"You're generous, down to earth, sincere, responsible, practical, encouraging and conscientious. You're never a simpleton. You take our relationship seriously and you can enjoy the simple things in life. You're willing to talk with me about anything for hours, even if the subject is not as important to you as it is to me. I admire your imperturbable support. I like watching you talk to a friend on the phone, and seeing you laugh and smile. I'm relieved to know that you're happy and content. Bizarrely, you love being with me," Sherlock continued with knitted brows as if absorbed in thought for a moment, pondering this fact. "You are you," he added after a little while.

John had an idea what Sherlock liked about him and why they made a good match. It was nice though, to hear it from his own mouth for a change. Sherlock's words of endearment and adoration made him feel warm all over.

"It's a great thing for me to have someone to talk to. I like that we can laugh together, being childish. Even in our moods, regardless of the irritations of daily life, we manage to make each other laugh. Our teasing, that may seem odd to others, makes us giggle endlessly. Then again, you have a grand gift of silence. We know each other intimately, and the silence between us is comfortable. There's no need for endless conversations. I am relaxed and content when we sit on the sofa whether we talk or say nothing at all. Strangely enough, my mind is never affected adversely by our closeness. You stimulate me. The, at times, irritating slowness in your thinking process only makes my own impressions and intuitions flash up more vividly and swiftly."

John slightly frowned at him.

"Don't give me the look, John, you know what I mean," Sherlock replied, smiling affectionately at John's reaction. "You light me up," he added. He paused for a moment and his face assumed a most peculiar expression, barely visible to strangers and hidden behind a mask of carelessness – serious, tense, smitten and slightly pained. It seemed that he had to work up the courage to get to the next part. Sherlock studied John's face in silence.

John didn't know what he was looking for. So he just kept quiet, giving Sherlock the time he needed and watching his friend himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Now I know that I never knew anything about love before you."

John could hear the strong emotion under the casual tone of his voice. It was there in his eyes, too, visible despite the nonchalance of his expression. Another indication of his emotion was the fact that in John's lap, Sherlock was unconsciously clasping his hand for dear life. John stroked his friend's hand soothingly. Emotions weren't Sherlock's area. He knew that it was very difficult for him, stepping out of character like this, and articulating the depth of his loyalty and love. All those little hints went unnoticed by the others present, but, combined with Sherlock's words, they fanned John's glimmer of hope for the development of a romantic relationship between them. All he could do for the moment was look for signs of a similar hope in his friend's behaviour and try to express his own affection. Now they could proceed under the safe cover of the case and their pretended engagement. Only the solution of the case and, by implication, the disappearance of the absolute necessity of pretence between them, too, could reveal what they truly meant to each other.

"To some degree you even are my moral model, my social conscience. I can always rely on you to try to help me to avoid making a social blunder. You have achieved a very delicate balance between the vocal expression of your admiration, exclaiming "Fantastic" or "Extraordinary", and your disapproval of my behaviour, saying, "Sherlock, you're showing off again." I know that I do not always meet your high social standards. Mostly not. I thank you nevertheless, for putting up with me and giving me your guidance in the social field. It's comforting, to look across the room at you to find you looking at me, silently reassuring," Sherlock said. "In spite of my many faults, you've miraculously accepted my proposal. You must know that I want to make my marriage vow based on the love that you've shown me."

John couldn't suppress a smirk. It hadn't exactly been a proposal. Sherlock hadn't exactly asked and John had blackmailed him in return. On the other hand, that was probably the way Sherlock would propose, by informing the person in question that they were going to be married, not by asking for his or her hand. And maybe, even if Sherlock proposed for real, John would make a bargain with him again, instead of just accepting his suit.

"I'd like to offer my sincere apologies to you. I apologise for the mess inside our flat. I am terribly untidy and my personal belongings tend to pop up in unlikely places. I know that even though you share my love for chemistry, you stop short of agreeing that any experiment should occur on our kitchen table or that the results or remains of the experiments should show up in any other undesirable place. I promise that I will at least try not to forget to label them at all times and to store them in the fridge that is intended for their storage. However, I will most likely forget about it all the same. So, I am sorry that most of the time you won't be able to have a decent dinner at our table and that our groceries will have to share the fridge with chemicals and even worse things," Sherlock told him, starting to specify his list of apologies. "I apologise for my moody times when I don't speak for days or when, in one of my strange moods, I decorate our walls in a way that you disapprove of. You think that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our living room is improved by it, and you're probably right, although I have to say in my defence that this activity of mine eases my tension profoundly. I apologise for my exasperating solos on the violin, especially those at ungodly hours, and I promise at least to terminate them by playing your favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon your patience," Sherlock said low voiced, then, his face brightened. "Fortunately, among my many faults, my papers are your central issue. I promise to reorganise them at least twice a year if it makes you happy," he continued. "You are indeed one of the most long-suffering persons I know, and I apologise for trying your patience so often."

John couldn't argue with that. Then again, that applied to all of Sherlock's friends and close acquaintances. If anything, one had to be tough and terribly patient when dealing with the detective. He did things in his own way and you couldn't do much about it. Living with him required even more patience and ability to forgive. Luckily, he could be extremely charming as well, and strangely endearing. In the end, you either had a soft spot for him or you didn't, and John certainly had. Saying "sorry" still wasn't easy for Sherlock, but John knew that he tried to swallow his pride more and more often and to admit his faults, when he realized he was wrong. Sherlock was pure and honest, and his serious efforts to improve compensated for many things.

Sherlock tightened the grip on John's hand. "I promise to respect and support your decision to start your own medical practice and develop your skills as a doctor. I know that will sometimes mean sacrifice. That sometimes you will come home late. That sometimes you will be tired. That sometimes you won't have time for me. I know that I will not always be the centre of your attention. I understand that loving me is not your only task in the world," Sherlock said with a straight face, unsmiling. His voice was firm and steady. He never broke eye contact.

John's mouth went dry. Before he could think of anything to reply to Sherlock's unexpected declaration, the detective went on.

"I promise never to put my job before you. I will set limits. I will come home. I will regularly preserve enough energy to be with you, make love to you, talk with you and listen to you. I will never be too busy to remind you, at least at regular intervals, that you are respected and cherished," Sherlock declared, his voice sharpened.

What? Why? What?

John stared at him in blank amazement. He felt like he was gaping at him with eyes wide-open, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, and only hoped it didn't look as unattractive as he supposed it did. He still wasn't able to utter a word. John was too gobsmacked by all of it. His mind was temporarily unable to comprehend all that Sherlock was saying.

"I promise to try to embrace both our families. I may not like all our relatives, but they are family, and therefore deserve my respect. I hope we can continue to make jokes about them to blow off steam. But, to their face and in their company, I will try to be courtesy itself," he said, making a face, and looking as if he had taken a coarse word into his mouth by putting "family" and "courtesy" into the same context.

"I promise to treat you with dignity and respect. There is no excuse for me to speak to you with chronic impatience in my voice. Even less excuse to speak to you with disdain or scorn, venting to you. I promise you my best manners. There will be presumably many times, when I'm bored or irritated, and when I will be in a nasty mood. When I'm like that, I'll most certainly overlook any or all of the above mentioned promises. I will forget myself. I will leave both of us wondering where my "Better Self" is. If it means anything to you, I promise that, when I come to my senses, I will have the common decency to be greatly embarrassed by my obnoxious behaviour, and to ask your forgiveness. There's only one thing left to say. I feel honoured that you deem it worthy to place your trust and love in me. I will do my utmost to make it worthwhile," he concluded his letter, looking at John expectantly.

John still was choked up and didn't know what to say. Sherlock didn't move. He still kneeled before him; their hands were still intertwined in John's lap.

The whole room remained silent for a while, looking back and forth between them. The only sound came from Anne, who was even weeping more severely now.

Even Dr. Martin was taken aback. She stared at Sherlock for what seemed several minutes. "Well, that was…," she started, but then John interrupted her, regaining his poise.

"…extraordinary," John whispered, smiling. He tried to keep his tone deliberately light. "Quite extraordinary." He was amazed by Sherlock's speech. Thousands of thoughts whirled in his mind. He was overwhelmed by emotions, but he didn't want to push his friend. He felt that both of them had gone as far as was possible for the moment, and although he was anxious to end the uncertainty, he wanted to take time, taking things slowly, for the benefit of both of them.

Sherlock replied with a faint grin.

John slowly let go of his hand. He pulled his friend into a tender embrace instead and kissed him very gently on his cheek. "You didn't just become a better man. You became the best," John said. "You're a great friend, and you will be a fine husband."

"To you?" Sherlock breathed, audible for John alone.

"Someone else on your mind?" he countered quietly.

"No, not at all."

John let out a mock sigh of relief. "Good. Although I should warn you that I'm the jealous type."

Sherlock grinned. "Could be dangerous."

"You say danger and I come running," John replied, grinning himself.

The tone of their conversation was playful. Their words could mean everything or nothing at all under the disguise of the case. The memories of their second kiss flashed through John's mind. That night Sherlock had let down his defences for a moment and John had caught another glimpse of Sherlock's innermost self. The kiss was pure and came from the heart, and was not thoroughly thought through, deliberate, or calculated. He wished nothing more than to get to know that part of his friend better, but he also knew that, at first, they had to finish this dance, this playing "hard-to-get", before "turning fear into courage" was a possibility for either of them. Then again, a man who was the master of patience was the master of everything else as well, John thought.

"We're certainly making progress here," Dr. Martin said, pleased with herself. "I think it might be time for you to try our method of "The eulogy and the casket". You will write a eulogy to each other and pretend to be dead, in turns."

"Err… I think that is a very bad idea," John said, startled, disengaging himself from the embrace.

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed."

"Why?" Dr. Martin asked.

"Because that's clearly … a bit not good," Sherlock replied, gesturing wild and looking at John for support.

"Not good at all. Besides, I will die before him," John agreed with him.

Sherlock shook his head. "That's highly improbable, John."

"I'm not writing your eulogy when you're dead," John said stubbornly.

"Why not? You know me the best," Sherlock asked curiously, apparently forgetting for a moment why the whole subject was "a bit not good" in the first place.

John looked at him incredulously. "Not now, not ever. I'M. NOT. WRITING. YOUR. EULOGY." John retorted sharply.

"Rubbish!" Dr. Martin interceded in their dispute. "I'm the counsellor. You're both writing a eulogy. Private session. Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock." She obviously wasn't in the mood to argue.

Sherlock looked guilty, as if he was angry with himself. He realised why John had made a fuss the moment he asked his question.

"It's OK," John whispered, patting him soothingly on the arm. "It's really OK."

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "No ex can be worth such an amount of tediums. No matter how much you owe him. Thankfully, I've abandoned the concept of having a boyfriend who could turn into another ex. _That _would most certainly be my death," he muttered under his breath.

John frowned at him in mock indignation. "My, my, and you're telling me that now."

Sherlock looked up and broke into a mischievous smile. "You're not my boyfriend, John. You're much more… permanent."

"Thank goodness!" John replied, winking. "For a moment I thought you wanted to break off our engagement."

"You will not get rid of me that easily, my dear," Sherlock answered, kissing John's hand. Then, he finally stood up, pulling John up, too, and they went to sit back down on their own chairs on the far side of the room.

After John and Sherlock were seated again, they had to listen for another two hours to the more or less successful letters of the other participants. It had been torture for Sherlock who sat bent forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His whole appearance literally screamed "bored". John had felt constrained to take appropriate measures before something happened. That, and the fact that another convenient opportunity to express his affections presented itself to John. He placed his hand on Sherlock's lower back, and he tensed at the sudden, unexpected touch. John carefully stroked his back in a slow, circular motion, teasing him with his fingernails from time to time and aiming at provoking a tingling sensation on Sherlock's skin. For the rest of the session, John's hand became the focus of Sherlock's attention.

_Yes_, John thought, _we're certainly making progress here_.

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><p>A little while later, they were heading for lunch.<p>

"What now?" John asked curiously.

"First, we'll have a full discussion with Jack. Let's find out what he thinks about this whole business. Then, we'll put pressure on Cameron," Sherlock answered good-humouredly.

"Putting pressure on Cameron?" John asked.

"You're doing the repeating-thing again," Sherlock remarked with knitted brows.

"I know it annoys you, Sherlock, and I'm sorry for that, but you're doing the "we-both-know-what's-going-on-look", and "_we_" do not," John retorted. "_You_ know."

Sherlock sighed. "We must prevent Cameron from giving the letters to Dr. Martin. She will most likely destroy them as soon as they are in her possession. These letters are compelling evidence in David Jones' favour. His arrest is based upon the blackmailing letter the police found in his office. We can prove that the letter wasn't meant for him. However, that means that we have to acquire them first."

"Not burglary again," John said, appalled.

"No," Sherlock smiled. "Where can he keep them safe, John? The bedrooms have no safes and he wouldn't want his wife to find them. He also wants to prevent Dr. Cameron from taking them. Conclusion: He must keep them on his person."

"Oh no, you want to nick them?" John said, a cold shiver running down his back. If possible, picking his pocket was even worse than burglary. While the latter somehow had an anonymous element to it, John felt that the danger of being exposed was much greater when stealing in plain sight.

"Don't worry. I have a plan," Sherlock affirmed self-confidently.

"I'm relieved to hear that," John answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He wasn't convinced.

"John, David Jones is innocent and I'm bound to prove it," the detective stated firmly.

John let out a heavy sigh. "I know."

Sherlock smiled reassuringly. "Good. You won't even notice when I give my performance."

"Jack's over there," John said, pointing in his direction imperceptibly, when they entered the dining room.

"Excellent. Shall we start then?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, the muscles of his face tensing up and his eyes immediately focusing on the suspect. He was the personification of alertness.

They helped themselves quickly at the lunch buffet and walked over to Jack and Iris.

"I hope you don't mind us sitting with you today?" Sherlock asked with feigned friendliness. "Our table neighbours are a little short of domestic bliss at the moment." However, Sherlock didn't wait for Jack and Iris to answer and sat down. John quickly followed his example.

"So, you work at a bank too? Must be incredibly interesting. Howard already told us so much about his work. Both of us have listened with bated breath, haven't we, John?" Sherlock said, his face belying his words.

"Right," John murmured.

"Yes," Jack answered in an aloof manner.

"Travelling within Britain all the time?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Yes," Jack answered with a straight face.

Sherlock assumed a face of mock sympathy. "That must be terrible exhausting for Iris."

"My wife stays with our community, of course," Jack replied condescendingly.

"Of course," Sherlock copied Jack's answer. "Do you travel all the way up north?"

"No, just within southern England."

John came up with something. "Well, you're newlywed. It must be difficult for you to integrate all these things."

Sherlock shot a glance of approval at John.

"I've been doing that for five years now. Iris knew what she was getting herself into."

"Five years. Really? Interesting!" Sherlock said, his eyes glinted with excitement. A sardonic smile played on his lips.

"You know that you're living in sin?" Jack suddenly said, defiantly, to Sherlock.

"Sin?" John blurted out.

"You're committing a mortal sin," Jack answered, narrowing his eyes to slits.

_Good gracious, that guy really had bats in his belfry. _

"Really, are we? Explain!" Sherlock challenged him, feigning ignorance.

"Man love is a deadly sin. You'll be burning in hell."

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I really appreciate your efforts to save my soul but I already have an appointment in hell. Don't want to disappoint him."

"Yeah, right," John agreed. "I have a bone to pick with someone there, too."

"You'd better not make fun of me," Jack said with a sinister voice.

"Is that a threat?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed. "Because in that case I have to inform you, that you'll have to wait in line."

Both men stared at each other. Jack looked away first.

"Dear me," Jack laughed forcefully. "I'm just a humble servant of God, trying to get straying people back on the straight and narrow. I cannot force you to follow my path."

"Although you interest me exceedingly, I'm terribly sorry to have to declare this meeting closed. On closer examination, I'll give the "short of domestic bliss"- couple another try," Sherlock faked another sweet smile and walked over to Anne and Ben, dragging John along.

"That guy is bonkers," John remarked.

Sherlock rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Yes, he's completely and utterly crackers."

Despite himself, John grinned. To hear Sherlock speaking slang was rare and, when it occurred, funny in itself. He was dead chuffed about finding himself another dangerous, mad opponent.

"Is it him?" John asked.

Sherlock looked squarely at John, grinning. "Let's wait for the results of the picture and hope for the best!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "John, my dear, why don't you get us some tea?" he added when they were seated, within earshot of Anne and Ben.

Automatically, John stood up again to do Sherlock's bidding. Sherlock's sudden want of tea had taken him too much by surprise to give him a good telling off for his attitude. "Do you want some tea, too?" John addressed their table neighbours.

"That would be lovely," Anne said, "I'm coming with you."

Ben grumbled in agreement.

John smiled in a friendly way at Anne who took his arm.

"What a lovely letter he wrote for you," she said, smiling diffidently.

"Yes."

"When will you get married?" she asked.

John looked at her awkwardly. "Well," he said, thoughtfully. At the thought of marriage, his face warmed. He caught himself thinking that wearing Sherlock's ring was an honour in itself and that he already gotten used to the silver band on his hand. He didn't know how he would feel about not wearing it anymore. Was that still a possibility? Not wearing it? He took a deep breath. One step at a time he reminded himself.

"We don't want to rush into marriage," he said, being honest. "I'd love to get married for real, not just a civil partnership. But I'm willing to take what he's willing to give."

Anne smiled at him while arranging the teacups. "He singled you out, John. I'm pretty sure he's willing to give you everything."

John thought about Sherlock's letter. He would even settle for the half of it.

"Good heavens, Sherlock! What's the matter?" John suddenly heard Cameron asking in surprise.

When John turned around, he saw that Sherlock's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. Apparently, Sherlock had stood up too. He was now in the middle of the room. In an attempt to grab onto a side table, Sherlock had knocked over a dish with fruit and a carafe of water. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face on the ground. Hastily, John thrust the tray with tea into Anne's hand and rushed to Sherlock's side. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, John and Cameron carried him across the room, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes.

John was dead scared when he started to examine Sherlock closely, who, thankfully, had not fallen into the shards of glass. He quickly discovered that his friend was fine. Heart rate, blood pressure, reflexes were fine. Nothing provided an indication why his healthy friend should suddenly suffer pain. He audibly exhaled. John was equally relieved and confused. The next time he looked at Sherlock's face, he saw Sherlock subtly winking at him.

Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, Sherlock sat up. "John would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness," he explained to the audience. "I'm prone to these sudden attacks."

_Huh?_

"Err…right, yes. Sherlock was very ill indeed," John lied. "Every time _it_ happens he scares the living daylights out of me," he added with a severe undertone in his voice. It dawned upon him that Sherlock had put his plan into action.

"You better stay seated. We'll clean up the mess," Cameron said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and attending to the matter. "Come on, guys. Let's give him a bit of privacy."

"See, no harm done," Sherlock whispered, smirking, when everyone was out of earshot.

John frowned at him and gave him a stern look. "Never do that again unless you want to give me a heart attack."

"You should give me a kiss, you know," Sherlock said, feigning innocence. "That's what people expect."

"You deserve me giving you a caning," John replied, unmoved, with arms crossed.

Sherlock pouted. "John."

He looked intently at the grey-blue eyes of his friend, with whom he never could be angry for long. John, however, remembered their morning conversation and he had known him long enough not to let Sherlock catch him on the hop. He wouldn't let him trick him into kissing him so easily. John audibly sighed. He decided to play along, although on his own terms. Sherlock expected a kiss on his mouth, but John quickly bent forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, simultaneously ruffling slowly through his raven black hair. John allowed himself to breathe in deeply a few times, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's shampoo and the scent of the man himself as well. He smelled good. John's heart was beating fast again, but he took delight in it now. The kiss lasted longer than strictly necessary and certainly long enough to give Sherlock food for thought. John couldn't help smiling at the sight of his friend who clearly looked as if he had fancied something entirely different, but was caught up in what he had gotten all the same.

_Sorry, mate_, John thought, _but I'm standing fast._ _You'll have to ask me first._

John almost felt sorry for him. The kiss had stirred his own blood too. He urgently hoped for an early release from this pretense. These unresolved issues demanded their undivided attention.

"There," John said, "a loving kiss for the audience."

Although Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something else, he settled for a simple "Thank you."

"What do you want to do now?" John asked.

"Well, I have to rest on my doctor's orders, of course."

John looked at him expectantly.

"I'll take pictures of the letters and send them to Lestrade," he said. "To Greg," he corrected himself when he saw the look on John's face. "Davies won't speak to me on his own account. Greg will have to inform him that the letters are in my possession. He can contact me to collect them and take steps to have Dr. Martin and Cameron arrested. Greg can update me right away about the progress of his investigation."

John nodded. "What about the killer?"

"Davies will have to release David Jones. I expect this will put pressure on our murderer. The unfortunate blackmailing affair distracted Davies' attention away from the essential facts. He will get a second chance to correct his mistakes. Now the murder itself will be in the spotlight of the investigation. Let's hope that things will get too hot for our man soon and he'll fall into our trap," Sherlock said with a sardonic smile. "The case should reach its peak tomorrow."

However, they were going to be surprised. Things never turn out the way you expect.


	18. Trouble

**Thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed. Please keep supporting me…**

**Stephanie: Here are the eulogies, then. I hope you're not disappointed. It turned out to be quiet difficult actually…**

**As for everyone else: I hope you're not disappointed either … Let me know… you know what to do! Suggestions, criticism, praise are welcome …as always.**

**The chapter is betad by JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much!  
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**'Death is nothing at all' is a poem written by Henry Scott Holland.**

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><p><span>Chapter eighteen<span>

The next morning, waiting for Dr. Martin to join them, John sat in the consulting room next to Sherlock on the sofa and had great difficulty keeping his eyes open. The sleep deficiency of the last few nights started to add up and took its toll. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock would be able to solve the case the very same day, enabling them to return to London. John was determined to sleep at least ten hours straight. Criminals and cases could go and jump in the lake for the time being. All he longed for was uninterrupted sleep, Thai takeaway and absolute ordinariness for no less than a week. He'd even consider to actually go on the vacation Mycroft had planned for them after Christmas. There wouldn't be any takeaway nor any restaurants on the island, but he'd even consider sweet- talking Mycroft into providing them with the necessary food. He was in his good books after all. There would certainly be a lot of peaceful nothingness there. Exactly what he needed.

Even though John loved their rather eventful life, from time to time he just needed "mundane". And a morning like this showed him this need quite plainly: Sherlock was rather hyperactive again, behaving rude and arrogant, which meant he was on the edge of getting bored. However, John decided to not pay attention to him for the time being, since he was too tired to chide him for his behavior. He'd waste his breath anyway. Since the moment he recovered the blackmailing letters the day before, the developments Sherlock expected were a long time coming. He had immediately sent Greg Lestrade pictures from the letters he had taken. However he didn't hear from the detective inspector for some time. When Sherlock finally got him on the phone late in the afternoon, his nerves were strung to breaking point and he admonished him for being inaccessible. The police officer ruefully promised to contact DI Davies immediately but couldn't begin to guess about how long it might take him to persuade his colleague to get moving. There wasn't much progress on the photograph so far either. Hence, Sherlock's bad mood. The detective was in poor spirits all night and at some point John gave up on sleeping completely. Hence, John's being short of sleep.

Next to him, Sherlock was grumpy and tapped nervously on the armrest now, muttering impatiently under his breath. John let him until Sherlock went too far and John was jolly well fed up with it.

"Stop nagging!" John scolded. "I'm sure he'll come soon."

"He's an idiot!" Sherlock complained sulkily. "He won't go where I point him, regardless of whether I give him a gentle reminder or I give him a broad hint."

John frowned at him. "I can't change that and neither can you. You'll have to sit and wait."

"If he'd been here any time sooner we wouldn't have to attend this nonsense anymore," Sherlock remarked darkly.

"Sherlock, if you don't stop it immediately, I'm going to invite your brother over for Christmas," John threatened, disgruntled.

Just when Sherlock wanted to come back at John's reply, Dr. Martin entered the room.

"How are our model students this morning? Involved in a domestic quarrel, I see," Dr. Martin greeted them and took a set opposite the two friends. She looked at both men intently. "Now you're annoying each other, but how would you feel if the other was gone from your life right now?" she asked. "What would life be like for you if your partner was _permanently _gone from your life?"

She had touched a sore spot. "Gone" was bad already, "permanently gone" was the ultimate disaster.

Both men exchanged a knowing look.

Then, John looked squarely into her eyes**;** his facial muscles were tensed up. "I don't have to write a eulogy to tell you that," he uttered under his breath.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed quietly.

She smiled, knowingly. "Of course, you can _tell _me about it but I want you to _feel _it. This is about the non-verbal expression of emotions after all. I want you to show me," she said. "Sherlock, if you'd be so kind as to leave the room and wait next door. I want both of you to write the eulogy to each other while being physically separated from each other and feeling the others' absence."

Sherlock made a sour face but stood up nevertheless. As he walked to the door, he cast a last glance towards John. Although his face gave away nothing, John took comfort from the thought that he probably felt as miserable as he felt himself. Then he was gone and John was left sitting next to an empty chair with the assignment to write Sherlock's eulogy, while Sherlock had to write his in the room next door.

John let out a sigh and shook his head. It was a great pity indeed that they didn't hear from Greg Lestrade yet. It would have been actually very convenient if DI Davies had arrested Dr. Martin before she could have forced them into this "eulogy-and-the-casket" drama. Now, he regretfully had no other option but to do as the therapist told them. He pressed his jaw together tightly and began to write, secretly bidding her good riddance.

Half an hour later, Dr. Martin left John and went over to Sherlock. She decided that it was John's turn again to start reading the eulogy and Sherlock would have to act dead. She was gone for ten minutes before she returned to the doctor. "Sherlock already made himself comfortable," she said, winking. "Shall we, John?"

Reluctantly he followed her into another room, and there, in a coffin, lay Sherlock; eyes closed and acting dead. Apparently, she thought of everything. The coffin was framed by two flower vases with large, bright-coloured bouquets and a huge candle stand, which cast a ghostly light on Sherlock's already pale face. Just when John started to feel very uncomfortable at the lugubrious sight, Dr. Martin asked John to walk over to the box, feel the impact of Sherlock's death, and recite the eulogy he wrote for him.

_Feel the impact of Sherlock's death. _Dr. Martin's words were echoing and re-echoing in his mind.

_Sherlock's death…_

John broke out in a cold sweat. Involuntarily, he clenched his fists. His heart was racing madly in his chest and he was breathing with great difficulty.

_Hyperventilation_, he thought, instinctively diagnosing himself.

Usually, he wasn't the type for hyperventilation. He normally was a bastion of calm in stressful situations. _No_, he corrected himself. In _dangerous_, stressful situations, he had nerves of steel. In the case of stressful, _emotional _happenings like this, he seemed to be nearly as useless as his friend. Of course he _knew _that Sherlock was alive, but it was such a horribly ironic situation that he still felt panic raising.

_Idiot_, he thought, angrily.

Standing in front of the coffin in which Sherlock lay pale and still, he couldn't help thinking back to the painful, disturbing events that had left a void in his life, he didn't think he would ever recover from that painful time period, only to be stunned and grateful when Sherlock returned. He still remembered every second of that fateful day. _Sherlock standing on the roof, talking to him on the phone; then, throwing it aside and leaping forwards. Then, he remembered nothing, because the cyclist knocked him over on purpose (as Sherlock confessed later), followed by a blurred vision of Sherlock, laying on the pavement, smeared in blood, and his blue-grey eyes, normally burning with the fire of curiosity, gazing dead into space, glazing over. He himself touching his wrist, searching for a pulse which he knew was lacking. _All the nightmares he ever had about the war in Afghanistan were nothing compared to the nightmares he had about that moment. In the months that followed he realized that a part of himself had died that day and was only resurrected when Sherlock came back. Now, he asked himself if he had already been in love with Sherlock back then, without knowing it.

John took a deep breath and got closer to the coffin; close enough to take Sherlock's hand. He had great difficulty with the sight of his friend in a coffin. It really didn't help his nerves that Sherlock was such a good actor. He pretended to be stone-dead perfectly. A part of him wondered, how easily the mind could play tricks on you. The rest of him was just frozen in shock. If he wanted to avoid getting anywhere near a mental breakdown again, he needed something to hold onto. He already noticed a slight ache in his leg. Instinctively, he moved his thumb until he found what he was looking for – Sherlock's pulse. Steady, regular, and strong. In spite of himself, he heaved a sigh of relief. He took a deep breath and released it slowly again. Then, he summoned up his courage and began reading:

"_Sherlock, you never liked to take centre stage. Well, you liked to be the centre of my attention, and you certainly liked honest compliments, but you always tried to highlight your work, which you considered as art, and wanted it to be the focus of interest. You loathed the public interest in your personal life. You wouldn't want us to dwell upon your death. You'd say that death is inevitable and that we should simply accept the fact and move on. You were always very practical in these things. However, we who are left behind, mourning you, will take this last opportunity to share our memories of you in the hope that they'll bring comfort in time. Forgive us for focusing our interest on you for the last time._

_If anything, you loved your job. It truly was your vocation, your life's calling. You enjoyed yourself in the role of principal advisor. You were incredibly brilliant and keen-witted. However, your success didn't emerge out of nothing. You did not only have incomparable talent but you were a hard worker too. I could recount the many times you've shown the world that you're a great man, but you already have been a great man before we met. You stood out from the crowd. People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did – well, no, they probably won't forget about that in your case - but, above all, people will never forget how you made them feel. Therefore I will leave it to the rest to describe your greatness which was obvious and mind-blowing at all times. I will not dwell on your many well-known successes. I just want to say that you were unequivocally the greatest man of your profession. I'd rather like to dwell on your good nature which was probably as impressive as your greatness but less obvious to the public._

_Not many people have the dubious honour to be mourning the same person twice in their life. I'm one of them. Once, you performed a miracle, and you changed sorrow into joy. Today, however, I have to say goodbye to you for real and I freely admit that the pain is killing me. You were my best friend. I've accompanied you on this singular, winding road of our lives gladly every day, backing you up and caring for you. It wasn't always easy but I wouldn't have missed any of it for the world._

_There are so many precious moments I could tell you about. I remember the day you realized that you do care about people in general and me in particular. I remember the day you showed me that you value our friendship - you called me a friend and meant it. I remember the day you realized you were a good man and realized your place in the world, no matter how devastating the consequences had been initially. I gratefully remember every moment you've shown me the depth of your loyalty and love._

_If you'd ask me about my most favourite moment I'd probably tell you about the day we met. It was our beginning, the first time that I set eyes on you and got a glimpse of your complex and most extraordinary character. Let's say it whetted my appetite. The moment was magical because it conveyed everything that would define our relationship later: your brilliance and your charm, my admiration and my acting as a counterbalance to you – our natural chemistry. I got a foretaste of what was to come. With you, a new world presented itself to me. I'll cherish every moment we've shared until the day I die, and I can only hope that you knew how special you were and always will be to me._

_Funny enough, the mundane and simple things we've shared seem to be the most important and extraordinary ones in retrospection. You never ceased to amaze me. The moment I expected it the least, you'd shown me a new part of your character. Like your love for nature that suddenly emerged out of nothing. You were a great musician too. Whenever I listen to my favourite symphonies, I think about how flawless and expressively you've played them for me._

_I'll miss your humour and your laughter the most. I'll miss the little gestures that showed me you cared and loved. I'll miss the moments of insecurity and vulnerability and I'll miss your unselfishness._

_Now that you're gone, the ring you gave to me remains my most precious property, a physical representation of areminder of your love. Your love made all the difference in the world. It is time to let you go now and this is really hard to do because part of me will be in love with you for the rest of my life. Let me say this again: You were the best and the wisest man and the most human human being I've ever known. It's been an honour to have been your partner and friend and although you'll be terribly missed by all of us, no one will miss you more than I do. Your absence hurts and I miss you like hell. In time, I know I will find strength in knowing that you were a true friend and soul mate who remained loyal to the end. No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded by each other's worth._

_What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; All that we love deeply, becomes a part of us."_

John caressed Sherlock's hand with his thumb as he recited his writings. He felt how his eyes watered against his will, and he tried to choke back his tears. He swallowed hard a few times, trying in vain to make the lump in his throat go away, but he was overcome with grief. He was back at the place where he actually experienced the loss of his partner. It was incredibly powerful. In his mind he couldn't make the film stop.

He lived through the memories and emotions of Sherlock's death again, and again and again. He was speechless with grief. Soon enough the tears involuntarily trickled down his cheeks and John was mortally embarrassed about it. Apparently, he didn't come to terms with Sherlock's faked death entirely yet. The question was why. He closed his eyes, feeling adrift. Was he still angry at his friend? He listened intently to his inner voice. The answer was no. There was no anger. He had forgiven him. He listened a little longer. Why did the whole play have such a strong effect on him?

Then, in a sort of second epiphany moment within a little more than twenty-four hours, realization hit him. It wasn't the deed that caused his emotions; it had only been the deed for a very short time after all. It wasn't the loss of what they did have, but the loss of what never would be when Sherlock died right away; the pain of a lost opportunity to tell him about his feelings for him and not being able to correct this mistake. And now John had to admit that this had been a factor in his grief before. That at least answered the question about the nature of his love for Sherlock. Slowly, he opened his eyes again.

He realized that Sherlock, being alarmed by John's unusual outburst, had abandoned the coffin and stood right in front of him now.

"John, are you all right?" he asked, concerned.

John felt awkward that it happened at all, and especially, in front of his friend who was very much alive after all, who disliked emotions and probably was convinced by now that John was emotionally unstable. For the second time in two days he wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He took a few deep breaths and tried to regain control. "I'm terribly sorry," John finally whispered sheepishly, pulling himself together. "I had a black out."

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, shocked, looking a picture of misery himself. A moment later he came to his senses, remembering that he was supposed to support his friend emotionally, and patted John somewhat helplessly on his arm.

Apparently, he had developed an automatic program for emotional support, John thought, smiling sadly in spite of himself.

"_I _am sorry," Sherlock said awkwardly with a look of guilt on his face. He obviously was struck deeply by this.

"It has nothing to do with…_the Fall_," John said vaguely. He couldn't explain himself right now but he knew that he had to get this straight right away. He didn't want Sherlock to be tormented by doubt. "I meant what I said. You're forgiven."

Sherlock looked at him, worried. "But sometimes it still hurts?" he wanted to know, recalling the conversation they had with Dr. Stevens.

"Yes, something like that," John answered evasively. "It's more about myself."

"You're not going to tell me," Sherlock stated, a flash of hurt crossing his face.

"Not right now," he replied. "I need time."

A few times Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then he closed it again, apparently having second thoughts. He obviously had trouble accepting John's refusal to let him know his secret, but he swallowed his curiosity and respected John's wishes, not inquiring any further.

John felt sorry for him. He didn't mean to hurt his friend. "I promise I'll tell you in time," he added, putting emphasis to his words by embracing his friend tightly. "First, I need to sort this out on my own." Internally he sighed. It shouldn't be so hard to say "I love you" for real, he thought, distressed.

Dr. Martin had no idea what was going on but used the emotional moment to let them change the roles.

John slowly disengaged himself from Sherlock's arms, squeezed his arm one more time reassuringly, and reluctantly went to climb into the coffin.

As soon as he lay down, John closed his eyes and kept them tight shut. He was still in a complete turmoil from the emotional exposure he experienced a few moments before. He'd rather write love letters to his friend on a daily basis than ever writing a eulogy again. Aside from this very obvious fact, the idea of lying in a coffin was absolutely creepy and he felt extremely uncomfortable. John didn't suffer from claustrophobia but the experience of lying in the coffin was eerie and nightmarish enough to give him second thoughts on the matter. The very smell of wood and lace alone, stuffy and dusty, filled him with nausea. However, his attention soon was otherwise occupied. Now, he nearly was sorry that he couldn't see a thing because a remarkable audio play presented itself to him as Sherlock approached the oaken box. Since Dr. Martin wasn't far away and insisted on John pretending to be dead properly, he didn't dare to cheat, peeking.

"_There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go._

_You were one of them, John._

_It's difficult to describe your many personal attributes. The first thing people got to know about you was your great kind-heartedness. The doctor in you was always present, and a good doctor you were: always ready to help other people, being kind and caring for others. You were patient and friendly, and spoke encouraging words to your patients as well as to your friends. We've had many arguments in our life but your words were always well-meant and never judging._

_You also were an adventurous man. Again and again, you showed me the soldier in you: your fast determination, bravery, integrity and courage. I could always rely on you. You once told me that you thought of me as a hero. I responded with heroes don't exist. I'm willing to admit that life corrected me. You certainly were one of them for I recall the many times you saved me and not just my life._

_You paid me the great compliment of becoming my friend and my partner. You were so easy to be with, making me laugh. You challenged me to change my attitude towards people. I'm thankful for your endless support and faithful belief in me, for the endless times we've celebrated our successes, for trying to understand my problems and helping me, to accept my defeats. Your love for me was unconditional. I never thanked you for the sacrifices you made for my sake and for every day that I gave you a reason to leave but you didn't. I'm thanking you now for all the things you did and I'm hoping that you knew all along, how much you meant to me. You were the most extraordinary ordinary man I ever met and what I feel for you I will never feel for another human being._

_You wouldn't want us to make a fuss about your departure and you'd say instead, "Eat some good food, have a few drinks on me, share the good memories, laugh a lot and then go home again, live your life to the fullest. Miss me, but let me go. I had my fill"._

_I will try my best to respect your wishes and to do as you suggested: I will dearly miss you, my friend, but I'll try to let you go._

_Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used, put no difference into your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow, laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we always enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow in it. Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was. There is absolute unbroken continuity. What is death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you for an interval, somewhere very near. Just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is past; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"_

It was a nice eulogy, as far as a eulogy could be nice at all. Sherlock made every effort to express his grief and John would have liked it as a eulogy for his actual funeral. However, Sherlock's feelings actually showed more in his manner than in his words. John could sense that he was agitated and this time, it wasn't caused by boredom or impatience. While John had relived Sherlock's death, for Sherlock it was the first time to be confronted with the possibility of John's death. Seeing your friend in a coffin certainly did strange things to you. _Knowing _that death was inevitable was something completely different than _experiencing _it.

Halfway through the eulogy Sherlock started stroking John's hair and kept doing so until he finished. If he didn't know better, he'd say that, oddly enough, Sherlock was affected emotionally. His voice wasn't as firm and steady as it used to be. He spoke with a breathy voice and swallowed hard a few times, before also hemming once or twice. Although, unlike John, he was a master in choking emotions, even Sherlock had to acknowledge that he wasn't above them in the end. Throughout their friendship he fought more against needing John, than John fought against needing Sherlock, because it would inevitably lead to his emotional vulnerability.

At some point, Sherlock reconciled himself to it and more or less accepted his re-emerging array of emotions. He referred to it as one of the "John only"-things. However, in the course of time, it started to involve more people than John alone, John had realized, satisfied. Even though John wasn't able to see Sherlock's facial expressions or body language, he could tell that his friend struggled to retain his composure.

Then, Dr. Martin asked John to leave the coffin again and waved them into two chairs which were standing next to the coffin. Unfortunately they didn't leave the room. The presence of the creepy oaken box seemed to be a vital point in discussing the experienced feelings.

"How do you feel now?" Dr. Martin asked them expectantly.

"I'd rather be in the coffin than reading the eulogy," John answered and addressed Sherlock, "but I know that my death would be…" John searched for the right word. Devastating? Disastrous? Catastrophic? He thought it best to choose words that stood close to Sherlock himself, in order to not freak him out. Touchy-feely talk needed to be introduced to Sherlock very carefully and in well dosed portions, after all.

"… inconvenient for you. I think it might be better if I'll try to outlive you and recite your eulogy after all," John continued.

"That wasn't what I meant, John. How are you feeling?" Dr. Martin inquired firmly, leaving Sherlock no room for a reply.

John recognized defeat. His anger was written large in his face. "It hurts, okay? It hurts like hell. I lost him once and I don't want to lose him again. He…," …_means everything to me, _John internally screamed to her face but settled for something less obvious,"…has become indispensable."

"Better," Dr. Martin retorted. She wasn't really content with how things were going. Maybe she realized by now that her "model students" wouldn't end up pouring out their hearts to one another in an emotional outburst.

"And what about you, Sherlock?" she asked.

Sherlock's breath caught.

John watched him closely, now that he was able to do so again. Sherlock was ostensibly calm and unaffected by the situation; he fixed his gaze on a spot behind Dr. Martin and was over conscientiously trying to look neither at the coffin nor at John. To John it was blatantly obvious that Sherlock was struggling, torn between the need of expressing that John's death didn't leave him cold, for John's sake and the sake of their friendship, and maintaining his composure, for his own sake. It was a rare sight: Sherlock Holmes was fighting with himself. And that was probably the hardest struggle yet, much harder than fighting his enemies, much harder even than fighting Moriarty.

"Sherlock?" she repeated his name vigorously.

He slowly released the breath he held. "Your death would be very… inconvenient indeed." When he finally cast a glance at John, the expression of his face was haunted. He didn't need to say anything at all. John understood him all too well. It was a real soul deep hurt. The pain got inside you and ripped you apart.

"Inconvenient? Oh for God's sake, tell me how you _feel_?" Dr. Martin asked again, impatiently.

Eventually Sherlock turned his head and met her eyes. "Lonely," Sherlock said quietly with a hint of sadness in his voice, finally submitting himself. "I was alone again."

She watched him intently. "Your need for him is great," the counselor suggested.

A long silence ensued.

Sherlock examined her for a moment, then, he bent forward, his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands as if in prayer, and looked at her steadfast. "John always supports me, watches out for me and cares for me. He loves me without reservation and is most loyal and faithful regardless of my many faults. He is my everything, my only love. _Of course _my need for him is great," he replied in a most casual tone as if recounting one of his deductions.

"Then his death would cause you to feel …?" Dr. Martin dared him.

"…uncomfortable?" John suggested quickly. He had been completely unprepared for Sherlock's answer who suddenly spoke in a language that was much closer to John's character than to his own. He decided that Sherlock already had an overdose on emotions for the present day.

"…devastated?" the counselor suggested for her part.

"Words fail me," Sherlock replied. "The extent of my feelings is beyond description."

"Do you…," Dr. Martin began to go into Sherlock's remark, when the door suddenly flew open with a loud crash, and a group of ten policemen dashed into the room like a bull in a china shop.

"You can't go in …," the little secretary of Dr. Martin murmured helplessly, jogging on behind them. Apparently she had tried in vain to prevent them from interrupting the session.

The ferret like figure of DI Davies was the last one to arrive in the doorway. "Dr. Elizabeth Martin?" he asked, not deigning to look at Sherlock or John.

"Yes," Dr. Martin answered. "What's all this then?" she asked, gesturing towards the group of police officers. "I'm in the middle of a therapy session."

Finally, Davies took notice of the two men and raised an eyebrow. However he didn't comment on the therapy remark from Dr. Martin and turned his attention back to her. "I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Samantha and Thomas Smith and committing financial fraud. You don't have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence."

"What?" Dr. Martin asked surprised.

Instead of receiving an answer, two officers handcuffed her and led her away. John was able to hear her volley of expletives for several minutes before her voice finally faded away.

"You're arresting her on charge of murder?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "You must be joking!" he exclaimed.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade kindly informed me about the evidence you've serendipitously _found_. I'm much obliged to you," he pretended.

"The evidence only proves that she is involved in deceptive business practice and provides fuel for further investigations on the financial matter," Sherlock retorted. "Why suspecting her on murder so suddenly? Where's your evidence?"

"She obviously had a motive. The Smiths blackmailed her. And unless you can produce conclusive evidence for your hypothesis that someone else murdered them, she's under arrest," the detective inspector answered with a sardonic smile and looked at him with feign interest.

"I don't have conclusive evidence …," Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth.

"I thought as much," DI Davies continued sweetly.

"…yet," Sherlock added in a determined tone.

"Let me give you a word of advice, Holmes. Rejoice over David Jones' release from prison and leave it to me to solve this case. You were coincidentally right in this case and you've helped the Trevor gentleman, but now it's time for you to bow out of it. I don't need or want your help."

At this level of impertinence John was temporarily at a loss for words and even Sherlock didn't know what to say for a moment. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's tenacity, Davies would still suspect David Jones and have no idea about the involvement of Dr. Martin.

"Don't let me keep you," Sherlock finally said with feigned friendliness. "As I said before: You shall work your method, and I shall work mine."

The detective inspector glowered at him, holding his gaze. "Be warned, smart arse! Don't get in my way!" Davies replied at last and left without so much as a backward glance, following after his suspect. The rest of his men left for the office area to search it again.

"Stubborn git!" John eventually exclaimed, scandalized, when they were all alone again. "What a nerve!"

Sherlock cocked his head. He smiled genuinely at the look of surprise on John's face. "Come, come, John. Don't mind him! His idiocy is beyond description," he consoled him. "In the end he will have to realize his mistake!"

"He will not be easily convinced," John replied doubtfully.

"No," Sherlock said, "but I will pile up fact above fact upon him until he will be forced to adopt my view. It's merely a matter of time."

He examined the face of his friend closely. Although Sherlock created the impression to be above such things, John knew that DI Davies' words offended Sherlock's pride. Davies humiliated him. If anything, Sherlock would only step up efforts and do everything in his power to bring down the murderer, to belie Davies words. For a moment Sherlock stared into the distance. His face had gone dark and a sardonic smile played on his lips. The emotional turmoil from before was forgotten.

"I'm standing fast," Sherlock remarked darkly. "He that will not hear must feel."

Davies made a mistake indeed, John thought. He would have to learn the hard way to acknowledge Sherlock as his superior. John really wouldn't like to be in his shoes right now.

"Come along, John. Back to Baker Street. We've got plenty of work to do!" Sherlock said and clasped John on the back. "Let's teach him a lesson he won't forget!"

_Back to Baker Street. _What promised hours of peaceful sleep before, seemed to promise more sleepless hours now - and another week of pretence. After four days of hard work and three weeks of emotions running high, they were back to square one.

It would turn out, however, that sleep deficiency would not be John's only problem.


	19. Bonding

**Thanks again to everyone for your precious time, reading my story, and your reviews. I didn't have the time to thank all of you personally, but you must know that your reviews mean a lot to me. Here it is then, the new chapter. Things are getting more intimate between our boys. I hope you like it. You know what to do ...  
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**The chapter is betaed by the wonderful TeapotInATempest. Thanks again! Chapter eighteen will be betaed within a few days. I'll update it then.**

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><p><span>Chapter nineteen<span>

On the way back to London, Sherlock was silent. Through the whole journey he was entirely immersed in his thoughts, not saying a single word. As soon as the train reached traveling speed, Sherlock leaned back in his seat, immediately put his hands together under his chin and closed his eyes, assuming one of his thinking poses and had not moved since, probably turning the case over and over again in his mind. Since Sherlock remained silent, and John knew better than to disturb him his thinking, he sat down opposite Sherlock and made himself comfortable.

John could tell that Sherlock's temporary defeat was hard for him, and the sight of him, distressed, aroused his compassion. Although he felt sorry for him and wanted to comfort his friend, he took care not to voice his commiseration. Sherlock had to do this on his own. He'd stay in the background, serving as a counterbalance and a safety net.

Soon, John began to dwell on his own thoughts and mull over the events of the past several days, staring blankly out of the window, not really noticing anything outside. His concern about his friend led to reflections on their life together, and their very not normal relationship. He already happily devoted his entire life to him, answering all his needs. Less than forty-eight hours ago his romantic interest in the man had aroused – or at least he finally accepted his romantic interest in him at that time. Who knew how long that had been seething under the surface. Finally, he had decided to give him this too, giving all of himself, not knowing what he would get in return. But he knew and trusted Sherlock, and he was fully aware of what he was committing himself to. He was at peace with himself. Both of them were strange in their own way and their mutual strangeness complemented and united them… John longed for clarification, and, inevitably, for Sherlock himself. He needed to know what Sherlock wanted; whether "us" was an actual possibility. Sighing inwardly, he decided to force himself to be patient and to proceed with courting his friend in the meantime - and courting Sherlock was as much a challenge as writing a love story into the fifth postulate of Euclid. And although John was afraid of and uncertain about his own as well as Sherlock's feelings and about how best to proceed, he wasn't lacking in courage. For the most part, he behaved as usual, being himself: looking after his friend, making him eat and sleep, helping him understand social interactions, backing him up in his work. To this he added subtle touching and refined flirting. So far, his friend fortunately was responding well.

Now and then his eyes flickered towards the ring on Sherlock's finger, which stated for whoever saw it that the man in question was taken by him. _Property of John Watson._

He wondered if the rings were actually engraved and what the engraving might be. He didn't dare to take his off and look, since he promised not to take it off, ever, and Sherlock could easily deduce if he had. Why he was so insistent about it, he didn't know, but John didn't feel like looking for trouble by not conforming to Sherlock's wishes in a case. Surprisingly he found that he liked the sight of the ring on his finger more and more. Even though there were no other imminent candidates interested in a romantic relationship with Sherlock, and Sherlock himself didn't show any particular interest in anybody else except John, the ring certainly made a statement and kept potential candidates away from him. His newfound feelings for his friend uncovered hidden sides of John; he wasn't used to feeling so possessive about anybody... John had to admit this might be due to the fact that, somewhere in the back of his mind, Victor Trevor, no matter how nice and charming, remained a sore spot and stirred feelings of jealousy and possessiveness. He cast another glance at the ring and comforted himself with the thought that, after all, all was fair in love and war…

On arrival in London, Sherlock immediately strode off to hail a cab, leaving John to carry both their bags, and John asked himself again why it was that he loved the man, sighing silently. The cab ride home was spent in silence.

When they arrived at Baker Street, John had not only to carry the bags again but also to search for the keys in his pockets and fiddle with the door lock, since Sherlock was absorbed in thought.

John's dark thoughts vanished however when they entered the house. He suppressed the urge to fall down on his knees and kiss the ground out of pure relief. He had never been happier in his life to come home although his joy was naturally somewhat clouded by the fact that they had not yet settled the case, even if his own reasons were a bit different than his friend's.

Entering their flat however, put a damper on his joy. They found themselves practically smothered by congratulation cards and bunches of flowers.

He had a sense of foreboding. "What the hell?" John dropped the bags in shock.

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock automatically bellowed downstairs when he looked over John's shoulder, taking in the "disaster".

John still was thunderstruck. "Scotland," he said, reminding Sherlock that their landlady was with her sister.

"Mrs. Turner," Sherlock sighed.

Mrs. Turner apparently had thought it best to arrange the congratulation cards on garlands, which were hanging criss-cross from the ceiling of the living room.

The number of cards unsettled John. Something had happened in their absence. He just didn't know what. "Where the hell do these all come from?" he asked disbelievingly.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, scowling. He ignored the mass of cards, his eyes settling on a huge bouquet in the British national colours that was placed on their dining table in the living room. "It seems Queen and Country send their good wishes as well."

"Glorious," John remarked. "I'm kind of more worried about the rest…," he trailed off.

"It will soon be over, John," Sherlock replied, looking squarely at him. "Everything will be back to normal."

John was about to answer that he would be fine if other people would go back to normal, when Mrs. Turner came up the wooden stairs. Both men turned around, still standing in their own doorway.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It was completely crazy here while you were gone. The elder Mr. Holmes was here with some officials, bringing in that beautiful bouquet and either cards or flowers arrived for you every day," she said, smiling warmly.

"How lovely," Sherlock answered with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, grimacing.

"You've been busy," John dropped a hint at her.

Mrs. Turner started to giggle like a teenage girl. "Yes, Doctor. Well, papers are lying everywhere and I know that Mr. Holmes' papers are not to be touched. Therefore I thought it best to bring the cards into the forefront," she said. "By the way…," she added, pointing upwards.

Both men followed her movement and froze, making a face simultaneously.

_Argh_ … Somebody also hung up another, well hidden, sprig of mistletoe just behind their doorway.

John sighed.

"Oh, don't be shy!" she exclaimed, motioning them to give each other a kiss. "A friendly kiss can do no harm."

Sherlock cast a questioning look at John who was undecided what to do.

Humouring Mrs. Turner probably would be the quickest way to get rid of her again. Kissing Sherlock however would create a difficult situation as he tried not to give away his feelings by responding too eagerly. On the other hand it gave him another opportunity to proceed with his plans.

While John still was in two minds about the matter, Sherlock made up his mind. He turned around, facing John, and pulled him closer by his jacket.

"Let's face it. The odds are stacked against us, John," he said with an unreadable expression on his face, slowly bending forward.

John's breath caught for a moment. Sherlock had caught him off guard. He was so riveted by Sherlock's sudden action that he submitted to his will without a struggle. There was something undeniable sexy in his dominant manner. Dominance certainly suited him. John decided to let him take the lead for the moment. He'd take it back later. Love was a matter of give and take after all.

When Sherlock finally pressed his lips against John's softly, John forced himself not to move, not to pull him closer, just standing there. He did allow himself to mirror his lips' movements, kissing him back. It was a slow and tender kiss, no tongues involved. He felt Sherlock tightening his grip on his jacket.

Maybe it cost his friend as much self-control as it cost him to take it slow, considering their last kiss, which was hard to forget.

"How sweet you are together…," Mrs. Turner exclaimed and smiled, contented.

Sherlock stopped kissing John's mouth and started kissing his jawline instead, in that achingly slow way he knew to employ so well.

Not that John minded. Involuntarily he cocked his head slightly to give Sherlock better access.

"You certainly don't disapprove of it," Sherlock finally whispered flirtatiously in his ear, when he was kissing his earlobe, still not letting go of his jacket, as if making sure that John wouldn't break away.

Slowly, John snapped back into reality. A matter of give and take, he thought.

Self-confident, John took hold of Sherlock's coat, pulling him even closer. Their torsos were pressed to each other. Then, he stretched for Sherlock's head and imitated Sherlock's way of kissing along the jawline. "Neither do you," he finally breathed.

Things finally got a little too hot and uncomfortable for Mrs. Turner, who mumbled something about "not wanting to be in the way" and hurried away. She probably wouldn't force them to kiss again. With Mrs. Turner gone, their alibi for kissing was gone, too, but both men chose to overlook this tiny detail.

John was ready to take this game a little further. He slowly placed teasing kisses along Sherlock's neck, paying a great deal of attention to a spot behind his ear. He catalogued how Sherlock reacted and what he liked. The detective submitted himself surprisingly willingly to John's lead. When he finally sucked at his neck just below the collar line, Sherlock drew a deep breath.

"Looks like we've found some of your hot spots," John whispered. "I'm going to keep them in mind."

Pleased with himself, he broke away and ran his finger across his love bite on Sherlock's neck. The detective took some time to recover from John's attack on his neck and let go automatically of John's jacket when he broke away.

"You'd better keep your shirts buttoned up completely for the next days. People might talk…," John said, winking.

The last time he indulged in this naughty, adolescent kissing technique had been in his early twenties. It was certainly a step back from refined flirting and mostly meant as a payback for Sherlock's smugness, but John enjoyed it nevertheless. For now, his chief concern was building a higher level of emotional intimacy. Physical contact was the bonus of a relationship with Sherlock, not the purpose after all.

Sherlock watched him with a curious expression on his face.

John couldn't suppress a smirk. "Oh, and take care of the mistletoe, luv, will you?" he said as innocently as possible, picking up the bags, and making a move for his bedroom.

"John?" Sherlock summoned him back.

"Yes?" John looked at him questioningly.

"Next time I'll return the favour," he said, winking, and radiating self-confidence.

"I can hardly wait," John returned, raising an eyebrow. "Believe me," he added and headed upstairs, shaking his head. He was impressed by Sherlock's ability to learn and adjust quickly in new situations.

When he came back downstairs, Sherlock was taking a closer look at the cards they had received. Now and then he snorted at the inscription. He lifted his head and looked at John. "My family," he said as an answer to John's unspoken question, grimacing.

"Your family?" John asked.

"Aunts and uncles and cousins and other unimportant and very tedious relatives, if I may say so. No one expected this little development in my life and, now, everybody is naturally over the moon," he said sarcastically. "Fame is a fickle friend."

John shrugged. "Can't choose your family, Sherlock. Mine is pretty much as impossible as yours," he replied, when a card caught his eye.

The card was simple but delicately tasteful. The inscription was in a woman's handwriting and simply said _"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. I told you he likes you more than I do"._ There was no signature. His stomach twisted. John had an idea about the author, however improbable and mad it seemed, but suddenly several pieces of the puzzle named Irene Adler fell into place. He remembered Mycroft's remark, _"It would take Sherlock to fool me", _and his own conversation with the woman. _"You're flirting with Sherlock Holmes?" _he had asked her astonished_. "At him. He never replies. Jealous?" _she had replied._ "We're not a couple," _John had stated, angrily._ "Of course you are," _she had returned._ "I'm not actually gay," _he had said – in vain._ "I am. Look at us both," _she had finally exclaimed. Although part of him was angry at Sherlock for his attitude and betrayal, another part understood. Sherlock wasn't in love with Irene Adler. He only admired her wits and maybe her beauty too. She had the face of an angel, but she was merciless. By now he knew that his friend was quite sentimental about the potential or real loss of any person with a sparkling wit resembling his own. By the time of Adler's "death" he already knew that he would lose his witty archenemy. Maybe he didn't want to lose this bright antagonist too. Maybe he thought she deserved another try for beating him. In the end, this was not John's business, even if he didn't like it – at all.

Sherlock saw that John's eyes lingered on this specific card and he tensed. John looked at him, but said nothing. Sherlock probably deduced that John had guessed his secret. Sherlock knew that John knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew that he knew. There was a silent understanding.

"I'm having a cuppa. Want some tea too?" John asked him and deliberately kept any hint of accusation from his voice. He didn't inquire, he didn't need to know, and Sherlock heaved a barely noticeable sigh of relief.

"I'd love to!" Sherlock replied in a slightly husky voice.

John went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took two cups out of the cupboard and waited for the water to boil.

He felt tired and worn out from the weekend's work, and he was glad to be home again. Sometimes he forgot how much he liked home when he was away. Silently he wondered when exactly Baker Street had ceased to be their flat, and become "home". He filled the cups with the freshly boiled water, put teabags in them and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had flopped down on the sofa and patted the space next to him, motioning John to sit down.

John decided to play along. It seemed that wooing Sherlock somehow had turned into wooing each other.

He set the tea cups down in front of them, took his laptop out of the drawer and made himself comfortable on the sofa. For several minutes they sat next to each other in silence, Sherlock sipping his tea and John checking his e-mail. Then, the detective suddenly decided to have a lie-down, wriggling himself under John's arms so he had to put the laptop on the armrest and then lean into see it, sitting in an awkward angle. Finally Sherlock's head rested in John's lap.

Taken aback, John stared at his friend. A new flash of adrenaline rushed through his veins and he struggled slightly to regain his composure. "Are you comfortable, _luv_?" John asked with a hint of sarcasm and disbelief in his voice.

"Perfectly fine, _dear_," Sherlock returned smugly. He snuggled closer to John, eyes closed, relaxing. "I need to think."

Why he suddenly needed to think while "cuddling" with John remained unclear, but John thought it was certainly better than Sherlock giving himself over to boredom. The following days would be a real test for everybody's nerves either way, dark moods being inevitable.

He took a deep breath and tried to turn his attention back to his laptop. He opened his blog to check on newly received inquiries from potential clients, and he froze in place. Under the latest case entry were an incredible number of comments which had nearly caused the blog to crash. He immediately started searching for the reason behind this sudden rise in comments, when his eyes fell on a posting from the Friday before. Surprisingly, it came from Mrs. Hudson, who wanted to let them know that she arrived safely, wished them a Merry Christmas, and told them that her sister wanted to congratulate them on their engagement. It immediately dawned upon him that all their acquaintances, friends, foes, and clients probably read about their engagement on his blog, and soon enough, he found entries from Mike Stamford, his Rugby lads, fellow soldiers and others, all exclaiming over their surprise and joy.

Now, John thought, it was all over town. The Internet and Sherlock's brother was all one needed to spread news around the world.

"I think I know why we're swamped with cards and flowers, Sherlock."

"Why?" the detective asked, not bothering to change his position, nor looking up.

"Mrs. Hudson posted about our engagement on my blog."

"Let that be a lesson to you to disable the comments when we're leaving. If anyone wants to contact us, they can send e-mail," Sherlock replied, smart-alecky. Apparently, all the attention didn't bother him at all.

"You certainly know how to lift my spirits, Sherlock," he remarked, sarcastically.

Then, he closed his laptop. It was useless to try to work on it, sitting uncomfortably like this. He searched for the remote control between the cushions, turned on the television, and settled for a documentary report. After a moment, he started to relax into his current position, playing absently-minded with Sherlock's curls.

An hour later, Sherlock stirred and rolled onto his back, looking up at John. He reached for John's cheek and touched it slightly with his fingertips.

The sudden touch sent an electric shock through John's body.

"Look here, John, you look done in. Lie down here on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep," Sherlock said with a hint of concern in his voice. He quickly stood up and took up his violin from the corner.

John considered protesting, but he really was exhausted.

As John stretched himself out, Sherlock sat down in his chair and began to play some low, dreamy melodious air – his own composition undoubtedly, for John had never heard it before. John vaguely remembered his elegantly moving arms, his earnest face, and the tender rise and fall of his bow. Then, John's eyelids grew heavy, and he seemed to be floated peacefully away on a soft sea of sound, until he found himself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Sherlock looking down upon him.

It was early in the evening before John woke, strengthened and refreshed.

Sherlock still sat exactly as he had left him, save that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at him as John stirred.

"You slept soundly," he said.

"Do you have news?" John asked hopefully, stifling a yawn.

"Aside from the fact that David Jones was released from prison during the afternoon, no," he said, looking disappointed. "We must wait. I've contacted the Homeless Network. They will be my eyes and my ears on the streets, shadowing our suspects. Their pursuit will go unnoticed. They will look as though they are meant to be there."

"Right," John said, casting a look at the clock sleepily.

"Don't worry, I've ordered takeaway," Sherlock replied to John's thoughts, smiling faintly.

John returned his smile, thankfully. He remembered why he loved him again. Sherlock might be an arrogant so-and-so ninety per cent of the time, but the remaining ten per cent certainly made the entire time worthwhile.

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><p>On Tuesday, John unfortunately had to work at the surgery the whole day. It was already dark when he reached home. He didn't like to leave Sherlock alone when he was in one of his dark moods; especially with Mrs. Hudson gone, too. In the hall he met Mrs. Turner who asked if everything was in order. "I'm worried about him," she whispered, casting concerned looks towards the ceiling.<p>

Her words froze the blood in John's veins. "Why so, Mrs. Turner?" he asked alarmed. "What happened?"

"Well, after you was gone, he was striding up and down nervously. I heard him muttering to himself, and every time the bell rang, he emerged on the landing, asking "Who is that, Mrs. Turner?" And now, he is gone to his room. He slammed the door behind him, but I can hear him pacing again."

John was a little concerned himself when he heard the dull sound of his tread. He knew how Sherlock's keen mind rebelled against this involuntary inaction. Sherlock hadn't come to their bed the night before and busied himself all night with one of his abstruse chemical analyses. At breakfast time he had still been engaged in his experiment, which had created a terrible smell during the night, and John was glad that he could leave the flat. However, it hadn't escaped his notice that Sherlock looked haggard and worn.

"There is no need to worry, Mrs. Turner, I assure you. This is very much Sherlock. He just has a matter on his mind which makes him restless," John said in a deliberately light voice, calming her down.

He quickly got rid of Mrs. Turner with a friendly but determined manner. Then, he rushed up the stairs – _seventeen_, he involuntarily thought – and entered the living room. He swiftly glanced around.

Relieved, he noticed that Sherlock had abandoned his chemical experiment. The kitchen table was tidied up again and the scent of Sherlock's experiment had fortunately dissipated by this time. A quick look to his right, however, told him that the wall had had it coming again.

He heaved a sigh as he walked over to Sherlock's room. He knocked carefully. The footsteps inside had stopped.

John could hear the uneven pounding of his heart. He didn't often enter his friend's bedroom. It always felt as if he were violating some sort of sanctuary, doubtless because Sherlock was very private about his own business. "Sherlock?" he asked.

John didn't expect any response, and entered without waiting for one. He found Sherlock on his bed, lying on his back, hands steepled under his chin. He had rolled up his sleeves and one of his lean, muscular underarms exposed three nicotine patches.

Sherlock's state of despair concerned John. "You're wearing yourself out, Sherlock," John said softly and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him.

Sherlock slightly cocked his head. He supported himself on one elbow and reached for John's wrist with one hand. "This infernal problem is consuming me. My mind rebels at stagnation! I know we are close to the solution, and yet I can get no news, John," he exclaimed gloomily.

Instinctively John twitched under the sudden touch. It sent shivers down his spine. The fact that he was forced to pretend for another whole week that they were together, without being together for real, frustrated him immensely. "Come with me, Sherlock. You're worn out and upset. I know this is torture and I can't even imagine how difficult this really is for you, but you need to take your mind off the case for the night. Let me distract you."

Although Sherlock was able to take his mind off a case easily when he could no longer work to advantage, he loathed involuntary inaction.

Reluctantly, the detective rose so he and John were sitting practically parallel to each other. Sherlock was, in fact, so close that their upper bodies nearly touched.

John's breath caught when he realized that his friend was studying him intently.

Sherlock was looking at him in the way he looked at a crime scene, or at a client, or suspect. He examined John's face; not the tiniest detail escaped his notice. Quickly and swiftly he processed the gathered data, constructing his theories.

John felt self-conscious now that Sherlock's undivided attention was upon him, scrutinizing him so closely. He blushed slightly but held Sherlock's gaze.

"What would I do without you?" Sherlock finally said thoughtfully.

"Get into trouble," John breathed, shuddering slightly.

"Probably," Sherlock answered, leaning towards John instinctively. His gaze flickered between John's eyes and his lips.

Involuntarily John licked his lips in anticipation. He forced himself to maintain self-control, suppressing the urge to lunge forward.

They were merely inches away from each other, when Sherlock's phone rang.

_Oh for heaven's sake! _

John's sense of frustration reached new heights with the experience of this fresh, unsuccessful attempt at kissing. He clearly remembered the blissful contact from the day before, which seemed a lifetime ago now.

Sherlock snapped back into reality and tumbled up quickly, clutching at his phone.

"Yes?" he simply asked eagerly, not bothering to mention his name.

Judging by the look on his face, it was his brother.

"When can I have a look?" he said and listened.

The answer clearly wasn't what he hoped for. He made an annoyed face. "Tomorrow morning?" he called out loud. "You're getting slow! Our time is running out, Mycroft!"

Then, he sighed. "No, I haven't forgotten about that," he said with a dark face. "Of course, _brother_ _dear_, I'd be very much obliged. Ten o'clock. No, that's fine." Sherlock hung up the phone with a feigned sweet "Thank you" and rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft will have my information by tomorrow morning," he told John, clearly displeased.

"Well, Sherlock, you can't do anything until tomorrow, then. You'll come with me," John said in a determined voice.

"Where to?" Sherlock asked reluctantly, bending his thoughts grudgingly from his conversation with his brother.

John tried to regain Sherlock's attention. "There's a new restaurant I want to try. Mancini's. The food is said to be excellent and you'll have an opportunity to deduce some new surroundings," he explained, carefully offering an enticement. At times, Sherlock led an ascetic life but when he did eat, he had exquisite taste and valued good food. Since John wanted to pursue his plans of courtship in some way, he might as well mix business with pleasure.

"Sounds expensive," Sherlock remarked, but his interest was definitely triggered; if not by the food than certainly by John's demeanour.

A roguish smile flitted across John's face. "It's definitely what you'd call a serious 'date spot', Sherlock," he replied.

"Ah," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, "we're going on a date, then."

Flirtatious tone, John registered. He had definitely caught his attention. Sherlock's disappointment about the current developments in the case seemed to be forgotten for the moment. John felt the flicker of attraction between them flaring up again; and a knot, growing in his throat. "Right," John managed, slightly nervous. "It's a date."

Sherlock liked playing games after all, and, hell, playing they were.

* * *

><p>Mancini's proved to be an excellent choice. The food was delicious, the service friendly and the atmosphere romantic. During the first course Sherlock would talk about nothing but violins, narrating in an elevated mood how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth a fortune, for less than two hundred pounds in Tottenham Court Road, from a dealer who didn't know it's true value. This led him to Paganini, and they sat for an hour over a bottle of wine while he told John anecdote after anecdote about that extraordinary man. And although the violin virtuoso was by no means a boring subject, he might just as well have told him the best way to make mulligatawny soup, and John would have listened with equal interest. He could listen to the sound of his deep voice for hours, no matter of the subject. Sherlock liked his attention and John liked to be his audience.<p>

Sherlock had just finished his monologue when a particularly interesting male in his thirties with an elderly woman took a seat at a table nearby. John watched how Sherlock scrutinized them with piercing eyes, drinking in every detail of their appearances.

"Interesting," he said low-voiced, studying them.

"Do you know them?" John whispered.

"Not personally," Sherlock answered. "He's one of the violinists from the British National Orchestra. A very good one," he added with enthusiasm. "You should have heard him play Vivaldi."

"Apart from his musical talents, what's so interesting?" John asked, trying to make some sense of his explanations.

"He's here with his mother. The papers reported his absence from performing, wondering about the reasons. It's completely clear now, of course," he replied.

John sighed. "Sherlock, can you just not do that, please? Although I am convinced that all of it is indeed plainly obvious and painfully easy to deduce, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. Why did he leave the orchestra and how did you deduce it?"

Sherlock watched John intently. If there was a hint of disappointment at John's ignorance, he didn't let it show. "He fell in love with a fellow musician and, not being able to face his feelings, he took a… what would you call it…a sabbatical."

"And he returned now because his love is no longer a problem?" John asked, confused.

"The couple apparently came to terms."

John had still no idea what the story was about. "What was the problem then? Didn't she love him back? Was she married?"

"No, when he fell in love, he realized he was gay."

"He fell in love with a man?"

"Bravo, John," Sherlock said impatiently, shaking his head at John's slowness. "Of course, he fell in love with a man. He's here to tell his mother! I told you."

Not really, John thought. "Okay, err… how did you deduce that?"

"Because aside from his nervousness - the way he looks from his ring towards his mother and back to the ring - I actually noticed his ring, John. When I got our rings, there was another guy buying a pair, and he told the jeweler what name was to be engraved. It was _his_!" he said, pleased with himself. "Apparently he was confronted with some sort of identity crisis and had to sort things out."

John could understand the poor bloke perfectly, knowing about it from personal experience. He had his fullest sympathy. He only hoped that his boyfriend was a more sensitive person than Sherlock who didn't bring up the subject as a matter of "sink or swim". At least he knew now that Sherlock had indeed bought the rings himself. He made a mental note to discuss the matter further at a future date.

"He is afraid to tell his mother. Therefore he chose a public spot. Maybe she had been wanting to try the restaurant for a while now. Hence, his choice of location. You can see that he is nervous, because he bites his nails regularly. Besides, his eyes betray the slightest shade of Mascara and his eyebrows are perfectly plucked," he said. "And he puts product in his hair."

John was not going to have that discussion again. "You know that is so cliché."

Sherlock took a deep breath, obviously counting three inwardly. "John, I am just deducing. I am not responsible for people making use of clichés."

"You're right," John finally said. It was easier to get along than to force Sherlock to say he was right.

Fortunately, the waitress came with the next course and prevented another discussion of the matter.

"I've taken the liberty of choosing a select wine for the saddle of venison, Mr. Holmes," she said and poured the wine in to a glass, offering it to him to taste.

There was no doubt at least who was supposed to be the one with the balls in this relationship, John thought disgruntled. People only turned to John first when it came to social subjects like emotional support or therapy questions.

"It's excellent," Sherlock answered and turned to John, offering him his glass. "John? Do you want a taste?" he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

Apparently, he had read his mind again.

"Thank you," John said, surprised at Sherlock's thoughtfulness, and took a sip. "It's excellent," he repeated.

"We'll take it," Sherlock said, smiling politely at the waitress.

"Very well, Sir," she said, pouring the wine in their glasses.

She wished them a good meal and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen once more.

They started to eat in comfortable silence, listening to the classical background music – Mozart as Sherlock would later tell him.

"By the way, is yours any good?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Why don't you have a taste?" John offered him a forkful, and Sherlock looked at him with a flash of surprise. "Come on, Sherlock. We've already exchanged a considerable amount of saliva; you're not suddenly becoming anxious about that, are you?" he said bluntly, but with a flirtatious tone to his voice.

For a moment, Sherlock was taken aback by John's bluntness. As usual, he quickly recovered and took the food slowly off John's fork, smirking, and never breaking eye contact. Somehow feeding Sherlock this way was one of the most sensual things John had ever done. Then again, sensual seemed to be equivalent to Sherlock's name lately.

"Want to try mine?" Sherlock asked with feigned innocence and held his own fork out for John who watched Sherlock intently as he took the offered food slowly off his fork.

Between the case and the therapy assignments, their concern about publicly displaying affection seemed to have decreased by the day. John still settled for the verbal expression of his admiration at crime scenes and at work in general, but everywhere else, he didn't mind expressing his affection nonverbally at all. He only had eyes for Sherlock; for his incredible intelligence and brilliant deductions and for the man himself, his pleasant and good-looking features, his tall and lean figure, his gentlemanly expression, his energetic character, his sense of humour, his vulnerability, his occasional uncertainty… In short, he found him smoking hot.

When the waitress returned to take away the dinner plates, Sherlock let his eyes wander through the restaurant, taking in the people, and John leaned back in his chair, following Sherlock's eyes and getting lost in his own thoughts.

"You should take your mind off the case, too, John," Sherlock suddenly remarked. "And you should order the Christmas pudding."

Sherlock's remark astonished John. "How do you know what I was thinking? That's bloody creepy, Sherlock," he said low-voiced, looking closely at his friend.

Sherlock smiled. "I deduced it. Remember, we discussed my essay on the science of deduction this weekend."

John shook his head. He was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to me," he said, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember correctly, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I sat quietly in my chair. What gave me away?"

"You underestimate yourself, John. Every man expresses his emotions by his features, and yours are faithful servants."

"So you read my train of thought from my features?" John asked.

"Your features, and especially your eyes. You cannot recall how your thoughts began?" Sherlock asked, smiling.

"No, I cannot," John admitted.

"Then I will tell you. You put down your napkin, which drew my attention away from my current deductions and back to you. Then, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression. After a moment your eyes flickered towards neighbours to the left, who are having the banoffee pie, and I saw by the change in your facial expression that a train of thought had started. Then, your eyes flashed across to the table on your right side, where Christmas pudding was served. Then you glanced up at the waitress who was passing by, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that when the waitress comes to our table to take our order for dessert, you're going to order the Christmas pudding rather than the banoffee pie because your eyes rested two seconds longer on the Christmas pudding than on the banoffee pie."

"Excellent!" John exclaimed.

"So far I could hardly have been mistaken. But now your thoughts went back to the weekend in Aldershot, and you looked hard across at a spot on the opposite wall. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the events of the weekend. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the first murders, which are especially gruesome in your opinion, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which the murderer proceeded. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of the weekend without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the imaginary spot you had chosen, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the deaths of the other victims, and when I observed that your lips set and your hands clenched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking that the latest victims thankfully hadn't been mutilated. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hands clenched even more, you frowned and you pressed your lips together, which showed me that you were wondering about how much more time we will need to lay our hands on the murderer. At this point I advised you to take your mind off the case and think about the pudding, and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct."

A smile flitted across John's face. "Fantastic!" he said, still looking astonished. "And now that you have explained it, I am willing to admit that I am as amazed as before."

"Elementary," Sherlock replied, but nevertheless his face showed his satisfaction at being right, as well as at John's admiration.

While they were waiting for the dessert, they passed their time with Sherlock deducing every single person in the restaurant to John, giving John plenty of time to admire him even more. The Christmas pudding proved to be the right choice of dessert and John mentally added Mancini's to his top five favourite restaurants. At least until the moment they wanted to pay and the waitress returned together with the manager, emphasizing the staff's hope that they would honour them with further visits in the future and expressing the wish that they would consider the restaurant for their wedding feast. In the end he took comfort from the thought that they found another nice restaurant where they got special offers, which was one of the few advantages that came with their mainstream fame.

The evening was far advanced before they found themselves home again, and John was secretly proud of having been able to distract Sherlock for the evening. He even managed to persuade Sherlock to actually sleep that night. When he lay beside him in bed later that evening, pondering the events of the past weeks, he knew for sure that it was love.

Hesitating, John turned around, facing Sherlock's back, and slowly put his arm around Sherlock's waist. The detective's breath caught and he tensed for a moment.

John held his breath, being uncertain whether he had made the right move.

However, Sherlock did not draw back and when John moved a little closer to him, he let out a deep breath and relaxed into the intimate embrace.

John heaved a silent sigh of relief himself and snuggled closer to his friend.

Until he found the courage to tell him about his feelings for him, he could at least continue to show him what he felt, John thought before falling asleep, feeling perfectly comfortable with this new, and consciously experienced, intimacy and closeness between them.


	20. In quest of a solution

**Thanks again for your alerting, favoriting, reviewing ... It means a lot that you read what I write. So, here's chapter twenty already. Time flies ... Please let me know what you think ... **

**This chapter is betaed by TeapotInATempest. Thanks again for your support!  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span>Chapter twenty<span>

The next morning at a quarter to ten Sherlock and John found themselves in the entrance hall of the apartment complex in which Mycroft's lodgings were situated. The foyer was done up in the minimalist way that was popular these days.

Until a few moments before, John had no clue whatsoever that they were about to visit Sherlock's brother in his private rooms in Pall Mall and not, as they usually did, in Whitehall or the Diogenes Club, which was due to the fact that Sherlock had been too focused on himself once again to bring John into the loop. It was only when they got out of the cab that John realized where they were heading. It was the first time John had been there, and he clearly felt uncomfortable in the Lion's den already.

One glance at Sherlock, who stared sullenly into space, told him that the detective was less than thrilled with solidifying the family bond any further by making a private call on his brother. During one of their previous arguments John and Sherlock had agreed that Sherlock would aim for a distant but respectful relationship with his brother. With the emphasis on respectful, because John knew, distant wouldn't be a problem. The relationship between them would never be a very close one. It seemed there were too many old scores from the past to settle for that, but meanwhile their relationship had warmed at least enough to call it "distant" these days and no longer "frozen".

A moment later they heard the lift, and John involuntarily held his breath.

"What do you know, Jupiter is descending today," Sherlock mumbled away to himself grimly when his brother stepped out of the lift to meet them.

John nudged him. "Behave yourself!" he hissed.

"Good morning, dear brother. Good morning, John. How good to see you," Mycroft greeted them, smiling, and shook hands with John.

"Brother dear," Sherlock replied curtly. The Holmes brothers never shook hands. Sherlock forced himself however to smile politely back at his brother, considering the fact that he was helping them with the case.

"Shall we?" Mycroft asked and waved them towards the lift.

Inside the lift John was well aware of the fact that Mycroft was scrutinizing them both. John tensed and involuntarily drew himself up to his full height, standing to attention – a habit from his military days when experiencing stress. Uncomfortable as he felt, he was secretly hopping from one foot to the other, deliberately not looking at Mycroft and longing for the lift to reach its destination quickly. But when he cast a swift glance at Sherlock, who was engaged into some sort of competition with his brother in staring each other down, his eyes fell onto Sherlock's neck. He noticed that his friend had knowingly left the two top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Therefore, John's mark was slightly visible under his shirt collar.

_Smug bastard!_

He should have known that Sherlock would show off his mark like some sort of trophy. John immediately felt as if he had been returned to puberty, and he blushed from embarrassment to the roots of his hair. Why did it have to happen in front of Sherlock's brother of all men? He wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

He noticed that Mycroft's eyes lingered for the fraction of a second on Sherlock's love bite, too. However, his sickly sweet smile never left his face. Fortunately, the very same moment the lift came to a halt and the doors opened, sparing John another moment of awkward silence.

"Please, come in," Mycroft said, opening the door to his apartment.

Surprisingly, his apartment was furnished in a much more traditional way than John expected. The furniture was similar to their own in Baker Street. Naturally, Mycroft's taste was much more exquisite and the furnishings must have cost a small fortune, but all things considered, John thought it quite homey.

"Make yourself at home, John. My home is your home," Mycroft told him sweetly. "Now that we're nearly family…," he added with a mischievous grin.

John thought that Mycroft was certainly enjoying himself over the whole situation. He was secretly exasperated with the insinuations about their relationship, but he stuck by his decision to not get into the line of fire of a Holmes for any reason. Basically he got on fairly well with Mycroft, but a sweet Holmes still was a bit creepy with him, and he was on his guard, his hackles raising.

"Thanks," he therefore replied politely, keeping a low profile.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in reply to Mycroft's comment.

"I suppose you want to look at the documents immediately, Sherlock. My study is at your disposal. Coffee and tea are ready. Please, help yourself. I have to take care of one or two other things in the meantime. I'm at the dining room if you need me," Mycroft said. "Oh and I took the liberty of ordering lunch. I take it you'll stay," he added with an unreadable face.

He didn't request, he "politely" demanded, John noticed.

"Most kind of you," Sherlock remarked sarcastically, but didn't object.

"I'd do anything for you," Mycroft replied. "And considering your personal habits, neither you nor John would get anything to eat before tonight otherwise. And since your well-being is near and dear to me …"

"We really appreciate that," John replied in a friendly way, before the situation could escalate. Although he could live with a little less interference from Mycroft. Caring was one thing, surveillance was quite another…

Sherlock on the other hand, had stopped listening to them. He swiftly strode in the direction of the study to attend to the documents he so eagerly looked forward to.

John cast an apologetic look to Mycroft, who rolled his eyes, sighing, and then, quickly followed his friend.

When he entered Mycroft's study, he found Sherlock bent over the desk, intent on his work.

"Howard's off our list!" Sherlock said and, with an indignant gesture, shoved the papers off the table. "He was having yet another of his amorous adventures at the time of the first murder."

His friend apparently had taken his brother's statement, that his house was their house, literally and was well on his way to messing up his brother's rooms.

Wordlessly, John raised one eyebrow and took a seat in one corner of the room, where he had a good view of his friend. He knew that a question or remark made at a moment like this would fall on deaf ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot on a scent. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him.

Swiftly and silently he skimmed through the documents that were lying in front of him. Whenever a document proved his hypotheses true and made a contribution to his theories, he laid the documents aside; whenever someone was exonerated, he flung the papers unceremoniously over his shoulder on the ground. His only concern was the capture of the murderer of Mr and Mrs Smith. Lestrade could pick up the documents later.

John watched his friend, whose quick train of thought was clearly visible in his actions, with great interest and admiration. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which they had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure for John to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. Part of John watched him with the eyes of the apprentice who observed the methods of his master, another part looked at him with the eyes of the lover, who admired the features and actions of his loved one.

"Stop staring, John. It's distracting!" Sherlock remarked, not bothering to look up.

"You're beautiful, you know," John blurted out, unthinkingly, and immediately kicked himself mentally.

Sherlock stopped dead in his movements and lifted his head, looking at John intently. The documents in his hands were forgotten for the moment.

They stared at each other for what felt like ages.

Sherlock seemed to search for words, but settled in the end for "What did you say?"

"Err … I like watching you work," John replied lame. That wasn't the complete truth and he knew that Sherlock could see right through him, but John didn't feel like that was the moment nor the place for discussing the nature of their relationship.

Sherlock cast him one more look, which John couldn't quite interpret, before attending to the papers once more.

That was a near miss!

John bit his lip and sat completely quiet in his chair for the remaining hour in which Sherlock went through the papers before him. Now and then, Sherlock threw documents to him, which he read silently. At the end of the morning it was very clear that Howard could not have committed the murders, Cameron had no alibi whatsoever - but also no motive - and John's intuition told him that Jack had attempted to conceal more than they initially believed. He had the cleanest state report John had ever heard of and that alone was suspicious-looking. Mycroft had also searched the law enforcement databases and found police records which reported the disappearances of one Mrs King, a woman from Richmond, and one Miss Bell, a woman from Reading, who went missing around the time of the first murders. For some mysterious reason both cases were never investigated in the context of these homicides.

Sighing and discontented, Sherlock slumped into a chair and grimaced. "It's enough to drive you mad!"

"At least Howard is out of the picture," John commented encouragingly.

"We knew that before," Sherlock exclaimed.

"But now you have evidence", John replied.

"I'd prefer to have conclusive evidence against the murderer," the detective sulked and tapped impatiently with his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "We both know who committed the murders, John, and yet I cannot pin it on him! Mycroft is still waiting for the GSM histories of our suspects and unless we get them, we won't be able to strike Cameron from the list. It seems we'll have to concentrate our efforts on the victims again for the time being," he said grimly and threw some of the papers angrily against the wall. "Dammit!"

John found it quite enjoyable to watch Sherlock losing his self-control and acting human. Very attractive, actually...even sexy… Before he let himself get carried away, dwelling further on his thoughts, and possibly baring his innermost mind again to Sherlock, he called himself to order. Business before pleasure!

Sherlock sighed, disgruntled once more. "Let's get lunch over and done with as quickly as possible, John, and then let's get back home. We don't have time to waste," he said. "Apart from that, Mycroft really could do with skipping lunch from time to time himself. He's already gained two more kilograms."

"Sherlock," John threatened. "Respectful, remember?"

The detective groaned. "I really can't think what on earth came over me, agreeing to that. First of all I had to stop smoking, and now I can't even take it out on my own brother anymore," he grumbled. "You have a bad influence on me!"

"Hear, hear," John replied, unmoved. "I don't want to bludgeon you into it. Don't trouble yourself on my account. If you want to re-establish your childish feud, pray do so!"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Sure, and afterwards _you_ will take it out on _me_ again."

"_You_ wanted to move in together again," John reminded him. "_You_ knew what you were committing yourself to. And things can't be that bad…," he added, winking, "considering the fact that you want to take our relationship to a new level."

"Very funny, John", Sherlock replied. "You'd almost think you were developing a sense of humour."

Just as John started to reply, Mycroft joined them. For a moment he flinched at the sight of the chaos Sherlock had created; a moment later he regained his composure, the personification of self-control once again. "Lunch is waiting," he said. "Have you made any progress?"

Sherlock grumbled, and John replied on his behalf, "We were able to strike one name off the list."

"Good", Mycroft said. "I expect the GSM data this afternoon."

"It's about time," Sherlock murmured, but forced a smile when he saw John's annoyed face and said "Thanks".

Mycroft looked from one to the other, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "Domestic quarrel?" he inquired, smirking.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. "As is generally known, the cleverer one always gives in. That is to say, I have absolutely no wish to sleep on the sofa tonight, if I sleep at all."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

"I am currently conducting an experiment in my own room. Hence, I'd be forced to sleep on the sofa if John decided to throw me out of our bedroom," Sherlock explained casually, responding to Mycroft's unasked question. "You must know that John can bear grudges quite a while. He gets in a huff and then I play – what do you always say John? – I play the prima donna, which would be a no-win situation. Nobody would gain and especially not our client. You see, I acknowledge myself beaten for the common good."

"I see," Mycroft replied in amusement. "That is probably best for all parties concerned."

The brothers talked to each other as if they had forgotten about John's presence.

He coughed disapprovingly.

"Well … Let's have a bite then!" Mycroft finally said and returned to the dining room.

"Really, Sherlock, you'd almost think _you_ were developing a sense of humour", John said.

Sherlock grinned. "If I recall correctly, that's one of the things you love about me."

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're really impossible, _my dear_. What happened to 'you're so easy to be with'? Now I'm suddenly bearing grudges?"

Sherlock's grin broadened. "Even you have bad days, _my dearest_." He stood up and patted him on the back in passing. "Don't give it a second thought. I love you anyway." Then, he was gone out of the door.

John stood up, shaking his head yet again, and followed the brothers to the dining room where Mycroft served soups and a ploughman's lunch. One could possibly malign his character, but John had to admit, he did have taste after all.

They spent several minutes in silence, enjoying the meal, but the silence perturbed John. It gave him the collywobbles. He had the uncomfortable feeling that somebody was watching him, and he feared that the silence might just be the calm before the dreaded storm.

It didn't help to feel Sherlock's knee pressed to his own under the table…his heart never failed to miss the usual one or two beats before restarting again.

Mycroft's eyes wandered from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock.

"My dears," he started a little while later, and John immediately knew, this was the moment he intuitively had dreaded.

"I'm glad to be able to inform you that the Government will discuss the legalization of same sex marriage next month again. I'm convinced the law will be adopted shortly. Nothing will stand in your way anymore." His smile never faded and something in his voice made very clear that he would tolerate no dissent in the matter of their marriage.

John, who was sipping his tea at that moment, choked on it, when he heard Mycroft's words. Sherlock was looking out of the window, pretending to be bored to death.

The Holmes brothers tend to say the most important things in the most casual tone and at the most inappropriate moments. The idea of marrying Sherlock however didn't startle John anymore. "I'm glad to hear it," John said, strained but friendly. "Thanks for your efforts."

Sherlock cast a swift look, first at John and then at Mycroft. He didn't comment on the matter however.

* * *

><p>It was nearly two before the door opened, and a drunken-looking building worker, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. John choked on his tea for the second time that day, this time due to Sherlock's dramatic entrance. Accustomed as John was to his friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, he had to look three times before he was certain that it was indeed he. It was not merely that Sherlock changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.<p>

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Bloody awful!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands. "I take that as a compliment," he replied, satisfied.

"Shall I come with you?" John asked, worried, since Sherlock had a gift for getting himself in trouble.

"No."

John's heart sank. "Do I want to know what you're up to?" he asked doubtfully.

"I don't think so," Sherlock answered evasively. "You'll have to pursue your own investigations."

"My own investigations?" John asked.

"We'll have to split up. I need you to go to Richmond and find out about Mrs King."

"And what about Miss Bell?" John asked. "Shall I go to Reading too?"

"No, I'll do that. But I have to attend to some other things first," Sherlock replied, holding John's jacket for him. "Come on, John. There's no time to lose! Get up!"

When John took his time, Sherlock impatiently took the tea cup out of John's hand, pulled him to his feet, helped him on with his coat, and unceremoniously steered him out of the door.

* * *

><p>An hour later John found himself in Richmond, where he received every courtesy at the hands of DI Perry at the local Police station. He let him have a look at the relevant police records and even accompanied him to two of the witnesses.<p>

Mr Michaels, the estate agent, reported that Mrs King had lived at the estate for several months with her husband until both of them vanished. She had been well liked by everyone who met her. She was no more than thirty. She was handsome, and a very lovely woman. Mr Michaels knew nothing of any male visitors she might have had, but it had been remarked by the commissionaire that she herself tended to be away whenever her husband was on a journey. On the surface, they had been a happy couple; her husband had been smart-looking and very obliging, but there were rumours amongst the staff about physical abuse.

Only James Bennett, the commissionaire, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure with the visit of a tall, dark, bearded man. He had been seen talking earnestly to Mrs King by the lake. She had left the place immediately afterwards, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track.

Out of thoroughness and because Sherlock had insisted upon this subject _several_ times, John conducted an extended neighbourhood investigation which revealed no new clues but confirmed the version depicted in the official records.

By early evening, John dialled the number of Greg Lestrade, after having interviewed all possible witnesses and feeling that he wouldn't be able to retrieve any more information.

The detective inspector answered his phone within seconds, probably due to Sherlock's telling him off.

"Greg, it's John. I've got a name for you. Melanie King. She may well have been the first victim, found in Kent. She had a sister, Valerie Downer, who visited her regularly. If it isn't possible to confirm her identity by the dental records, I need you to match her DNA with Valerie Downers. If we can give a name to the victim, we can give a name to the murderer before long."

Greg answered in a peeved tone that John was slowly starting to sound like Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Shortly after nine o'clock in the evening, John sank into his armchair in front of the fireplace and reached for his laptop, feeling satisfied and exhausted. He had a sense that he had made a crucial contribution to the case's solution.<p>

Sherlock hadn't been accessible through the afternoon, and John was astonished when he found on his arrival at home, that the detective had already returned and was taking a shower. The leftovers of a Italian risotto in the kitchen told him that his friend even had dinner. John himself had eaten at the train station before he got on the train back to London.

They had already discussed the most important developments of the case, yelling through the closed bathroom door. Sherlock had told him, in not so many words, that he was content with John's progress and explained that he himself had investigated incognito within Jack's milieu, but the investigations around Miss Bell came to nothing. John hadn't been able to glean any more information than that.

"How do I look now?" Sherlock asked with a playful smile when he emerged in the door to the living room, wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits again.

"Much better," John replied, relieved, since he couldn't detect any injuries at first sight.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Better?" he asked mischievously.

"You never asked me before…"

"I am asking you now," Sherlock replied.

Gorgeous? Mind-blowing? Great? "Good. You're looking good, Sherlock. As always," he finally said.

"Just good?" he teased, urging.

Courtship games, John thought. The moment Sherlock was on the case, he changed into the astute sleuth who only paid attention to the case; the moment he could take his mind off the case, he focused his attention on John, either wooing him or wanting to be wooed by him. John was still groping in the dark about whether Sherlock was playing along or really wanted it. However, his hopes were raised whenever the detective reacted favourably to John's courting.

"Gorgeous?" John asked teasingly.

"Is that a question?"

"Gorgeous," John said, more confident with his answer. "You're beautiful," he couldn't help adding in a cautious manner and, just to take away the severity of his words, he quickly continued, "But I thought you didn't care about looks?"

"That depends," Sherlock answered with a knowing smile, sitting down in his usual chair, and opening the newspaper.

John raised his eyebrow but said nothing, continuing to tap away on his laptop silently and, now, slightly flushed.

"See here!" Sherlock said a little while later, after having shared a quarter-hour of blissful silence, handing the newspaper over to John. "Look at this!"

It was the _Times_ for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was devoted to the case of the dead woman in Kensington Gardens. Neither of them had had the time to read the newspaper yet in their rather eventful day.

" …The crime was a result of an old-standing romantic feud. The case brings out in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police force. The credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials, the Detective Inspectors Greg Lestrade and Tobias Gregson. Their trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law resulted in the immediate arrest of the culprit," John read out loud the last part of the article, knitting his brows.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Sherlock said, grinning over his coffee cup. "What do you think of it?"

"Glorious!" John snorted.

"I should be concerned about being forced to give up business if they happened to have another of their attacks of energy," Sherlock continued good-humouredly.

At this moment, the doorbell rang downstairs. Sherlock lifted his head and listened intently. "Just the fraction of a second. No urgency," he deduced. "Not a client."

A little while later, they heard the pleasant voice of Greg Lestrade, exchanging courtesies with Mrs Turner before ascending the stairs. It was no very unusual thing for the Detective Inspector, to look in on them on an evening, and his visits were always as welcome to Sherlock as they were to John. They enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Greg would bring, Sherlock was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case the detective was engaged in, and was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

"Evening, Sherlock. Evening, John," he greeted them, smiling.

"Come in, Greg," John said. "Make yourself comfortable. Beer?"

Greg nodded and collapsed into a chair, heaving a sigh. "Yes, thanks, John."

"Ah, Le…Greg," Sherlock welcomed him, apparently recalling at the last moment that he had to use his first name. "May I congratulate you warmly on this magnificent example of team play you demonstrated in such an exemplary manner with Detective Inspector Gregson," Sherlock said with a mischievous smile.

He was only teasing their friend, and John heard no offensive sarcasm in his voice.

"Well," Greg said in a deprecatory voice, clearly recalling the many times he clashed violently with Tobias Gregson. "I'm happy to know you're enjoying yourself."

"Don't take it amiss," Sherlock replied, with a laugh. "I couldn't resist."

"Fine," Greg grumbled, lifting his hand to show that he was forgiven.

Sherlock hemmed. "Err… I've heard about the Molesey mystery, Greg. You handled it with less than your usual … I mean to say, you handled it fairly well."

John nearly dropped Greg's beer in the kitchen with shock when he heard Sherlock's kind words, which caused him astonishment … and a warm feeling in his stomach. He quickly put three beers together with snacks on the tray and returned to the living room, putting everything on the coffee table and plunking down into his own chair opposite Sherlock.

"Thanks," Greg said with a look of equal astonishment on his face. Sherlock didn't often praise the work of the official force. Greg shifted around on his chair. Then, he bent forward, looking at Sherlock and searching for words. "Look, Sherlock, about this Aldershot case. At the Yard, we feel embarrassed for Davies. He gave you the cold shoulder and was condescending towards you. He shouldn't have done that. Err … Sorry about that." Greg looked relieved after having had his say. Apparently, he wasn't easy in his mind about Davies' behaviour, but John knew, that these words didn't come easily. It wasn't easy for a Yarder to accept Sherlock, who was an "amateur", as a superior, but Greg wasn't a fool. Sherlock was a genius and their cooperation cut both ways, after all. Moreover, they were friends by now.

"He's an idiot," Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders. "He's in Anderson's division. I can't blame the Yard for him, but you should most certainly sort the applicants more thoroughly," he said and looked keenly at him. "But what is more important - do you have any news about the Aldershot case?"

"Yes, that's why I'm here. I woke this morning to find your brother's subordinates standing by the side of my bed, assigned to wake me up and bring me to him," he said with a hint of resentment in his voice, looking at Sherlock reproachfully, who listened intently without blinking an eye.

"Well, your brother 'suggested' we join forces and assigned me several tasks. I was bustling about the whole day. All this to-ing and fro-ing between the Yard and Whitehall and Archives and God-knows-what wore me out!" he exclaimed, ruffled

"Yes, I saw him doing that," Sherlock replied, unmoved. "Pray, continue!"

John thought that this trait ran in the family but he kept his mouth wisely shut.

"Well, your brother said that the gay fellow was off your list, so we concentrated on the blackmailer and the saint. I've been through reams of paper, and, in the end, the blackmailer seemed to have a well-hidden alibi for the first murder."

Sherlock frowned at Greg for nicknaming the suspects, but deduced the answer before Greg were able to finish his story. "He slept with his secretary."

Greg's jaw dropped. "Yes, he was in Scotland with her. But how on earth did you guess that?"

"Greg," Sherlock started calmly. "I never guess. Guessing is a very bad habit and not beneficial for the mind. I spoke to Mycroft briefly this afternoon, because he promised he'd have my remaining information soon. "

"You know everything already then," Greg said, disappointed. "Apart from that, Sherlock, next time you must tell me about your conclusions first thing. You can't first go through our archives and then start investigating on your own account like that."

"Greg, to begin with, I just talked briefly to Mycroft as I said. He informed me about the progress of your investigations and reported no more than Cameron's alibi. Secondly, when I drew my conclusions you were sort of preoccupied," Sherlock reminded him. "With _Tobias_," he added.

He used Gregson's first name, much to Greg's displeasure, to emphasize a familiarity with the man which certainly was in development but not yet fully developed. Apparently, aside from being jealous of Sherlock, some sort of rivalry was flaring up at the Yard over who was on the best terms with Sherlock as well.

Greg coughed. "Be that as it may, this leaves us with Jack, just as you've guessed … err figured … deduced yesterday," Greg explained. "This evening we finally got the reports on the picture you sent Mycroft. The woman on the photo is indeed Melanie King. We've informed her sister. She'll come tomorrow to assist with the DNA test and bring pictures of the vanished husband. Thing is, his police record is completely clean and his life story is perfectly flawless, if you know what I mean. There's something shady about it."

A contented and sardonic smile played on Sherlock's lips. "I thought as much," he said. "I know a Moriarty if I see one. One last greeting from hell. Dear Jim… ," he whispered thoughtfully, trailing off.

"Moriarty?" Greg asked, confused.

"Got him a new identity back then," John replied.

"Jesus...," Greg trailed off.

"Great!" Sherlock said, more to himself than to his friends, and his eyes glinted with excitement. He rubbed his hands together, nearly giddy with pleasure.

"There is another development in the case as well. Dr Martin talked. She told Davies about the blackmailing affair with Cameron Meyer and what he told her about retrieving the letters from Smith's room. She tried to make a deal with Davies with the objective of pleading in mitigation. He's not yet fully convinced but I'm working on that."

"Ah, good. I've set my own agents on Jack. I sincerely hope to hear from them soon. I should be able to settle the case this weekend. Do me a favour, Greg, and keep Davies from arresting Cameron Meyer on a charge of murder in the meantime. The man can't put one and one together."

"I'll do my best," Greg replied, sighing, and took a sip of his beer. His eyes roamed through the room and fixed on the cards, hanging on garlands. The he cast a glance at their rings and coughed several times. "By the way, when do you plan on having the big day?" Greg asked sheepishly

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick look.

"Mycroft is working on legalizing same sex marriage," John finally replied evasively.

"Blimey. Your brother sometimes really is the British Government, you know that?" Greg replied taken aback. Confusion was written all over his face.

"Well … the thought had occurred to me," Sherlock answered, and John stifled a laugh when he saw the face his friend made.

"Well, guys, it's good to hear that he'll take care of it, if that's what you want", he finally answered and cast a swift glance at his watch. "It's late again. I better be off. Tomorrow will be an early day again. Thanks for the beer. See you."

Sherlock gazed after him, grinning. "John, don't you think that Greg and my brother would make a fine couple?" he said, when the official detective was out of earshot.

"You are an evil person, Sherlock Holmes! Shame on you!" John replied, trying to make a serious face but failing miserably. As a result Sherlock burst into a roaring laughter, and John finally joined in.

Late that evening, a bunch of flowers arrived. At first John thought that it was for their engagement again, but then he read the card. Written on the card were the words "You are the greatest. Take this as a simple token of my gratitude. Love, Victor".

Sherlock even blushed a bit when he read the card.

John's stomach, however, automatically tightened at the words of endearment from the infernal ex, but he settled for another tactic than showing obvious jealousy. "Sweet," John remarked innocently. "So right he is."

If possible, the colour in Sherlock's face deepened at John's words. As a reply, John squeezed his shoulders and pecked a chaste kiss on his hair. "You are one of a kind."

* * *

><p>The next day, John didn't see much of Sherlock. The detective continued his undercover investigation of Jack, leaving every morning before nine o'clock in the disguise of the drunken building worker and returning before eight in the evening. He still remained secretive about his investigations and progress, causing John to worry because he had the uncomfortable feeling that Sherlock might be involved in legally or morally questionable activities.<p>

By Thursday evening, Sherlock's investigations were apparently already well-advanced and, with the intervention of Greg Lestrade, Davies was finally forced to withdraw the charge of murder against Dr Martin. The Police published a short communique about the matter, which caused a scandal; the press ate them alive for charging the wrong person twice and for having no clue whatsoever about the real murderer.

The involvement of Sherlock Holmes, however, thankfully remained a secret for the time being.


	21. The solution

**Thank you very much, guys, for your reviews, alerts etc. I apologize for the delay in updating this story, but I've been rather busy. Well, here it is: chapter twenty-one. Reviews are very welcome. **

**This chapter is betaed by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much. All mistakes are mine.  
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**Some of you have mentioned the occasional use of Victorian English in the ACD parts I use. I'd like to change them into more modern English. So, please, if you have suggestions considering the choice of words, please PM me. Remember, I'm not English and, therefore, I do not always see or know, how to phrase old English into new. I'd appreciate your help very much. Thanks.  
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* * *

><p><span>Chapter twenty-one <span>

For most of Friday morning Sherlock stood in front of the living room window with an expression of perfect happiness on his face, humming and watching the goings-on down on the street. From time to time he picked up his violin and accompanied himself on it.

The detective's unusual behaviour made John watching him suspiciously from his armchair. The moment Sherlock started humming, John laid aside his book and he hadn't taken his eyes off his friend since.

"You know, I always start worrying the moment you're this euphoric," John remarked. "Considering your mood, I'll start by assuming that yesterday's investigations proved fruitful. Is there anything else, _anything at all_, I should know?"

Sherlock turned towards him. "The sun is shining. We're going to have a white Christmas. You'll be with me throughout the festive season," Sherlock said, grinning. "What more can a man ask for?"

The detective's answer confirmed John's darkest presumptions. "Alright. I deduce that there _definitely_ is something I should know, by all means. You're trying to change the subject. What have you done? I didn't sleep a wink tonight, thinking about Greg calling me any moment to tell me you'd been arrested for committing burglary."

Sherlock contorted his face into something John presumed was supposed to be an air of innocence. "Really, John. It's a no-win situation. When I am moping around the house, it isn't okay with you and when I am in high spirits, it isn't okay with you either."

"Don't believe for a second that I'm falling for that. Spit it out," John replied, unmoved. "Did you break into another house?"

"That is susceptible to various interpretations", Sherlock replied, shrugging.

"Oh, my God, please, don't tell me you broke into Jack's house?" John was growing pale in the face. "Jack has already murdered six people, if you don't mind me reminding you. We agreed not to risk our lives anymore to prove we're clever, didn't we?"

"Now you're exaggerating, John. And besides, technically I didn't break into the house because the door lock was broken anyway. One could argue about trespassing, I suppose … Well, more importantly there was a housemaid ogling me all day long while I was at work, disguised as a building worker, carrying out masons' work. She brought us food and coffee from time to time. If necessary I could have chatted her into letting me gain access to the house. Fortunately the problem did not arise, since I discovered that the door lock was broken anyway. The conversations I had with her, John … Good gracious! Sweet, sentimental stuff like your former poetry to your so called girlfriends." At the thought of it, Sherlock made a face, plunking down in his chair opposite John. "Well, by way of a change I just entered through the front door as soon as it was dark. Voila!"

Involuntarily, Sherlock's words stung John deep inside. "I don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm speechless and usually, not even you succeed in doing that to me," John replied, frowning. "Have you thought just one minute about the girl?" John tried to not pay attention to the sting of jealousy he felt, although failing miserably. He had said "girl" but of course he meant himself as well.

"Err … yes, I did for a moment …. I know that you don't approve of it….but I can't busy myself with the odds and sods, John. The stakes could not be higher," Sherlock replied. "Moreover, I had a rival who will look after her. On that score, he seemed to be determined."

"For God's sake! We're engaged!" John exclaimed unintentionally. He had wanted to say something else entirely. Apparently it was not just his body that had decided to live a life of its own by falling in love with his best friend, unasked. Obviously something had also happened with his thoughts on their way to his speech centre and that process was out of his control – and not for the first time. He'd better get a grip on his jealousy; these kinds of emotions would only turn any possible relationship with Sherlock into a mine field unnecessarily. Aside from that, he was wise to the fact that as far as Sherlock was concerned, the end justified the means, and in a relationship with the detective foolish behaviour of this kind could be expected as an everyday occurrence.

For a moment Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. "I didn't forget about that, John. I am not and would never be unfaithful to you! I was incognito!"

The conversation, which had gotten off the subject due to John's emotional life, now trod a sensitive path, and he preferred to leave it again immediately. "Let's start again from scratch, my dear. You … _got_ into the house of our serial killer. I definitely do not approve of it. I disagree in principal and especially, since you were on your own. But let's return to our subject. Did you find any evidence against Jack?"

Relief over John changing the subject was written all over Sherlock's face. "Nothing of particular importance. But at least I was able to verify some of my theories. There are floorboards under the carpet in the dining room which have been moved recently. I believe Jack is hiding his collection of trophies there. I'm afraid I couldn't pursue the lead any further, because the cat sent a vase of flowers flying, and I beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, the gardener nearly laid hold of me," Sherlock said. "The good news is that the interviews with the members of the household were far more fruitful. There are rumours of domestic violence between Iris and Jack too."

If possible, John was growing even paler. "Nearly laid hold of you?" he repeated. He had heard nothing after that.

"Yes, he nearly laid hold of me," Sherlock affirmed. "And then …"

"Nearly laid hold of you!" John interrupted, wrought up. "And you're just mentioning that casually. You will give me a heart attack one day!"

It wasn't the first time that John understood how Mycroft Holmes must have felt from time to time, worrying constantly about his brother … a task, they were sharing these days, which inevitably led to him rising in John's esteem. John wouldn't exactly rate him among his friends, but since he had no old scores to settle with Mycroft, which might have affected his judgment, the older brother's genuine concern, revealed in his eyes and actions, were obvious to John. Sherlock, of course, could not see it.

"JOHN."

"SHERLOCK," John said harshly. "No serial killer, blackmailer, consulting criminal genius or whoever is important enough, to risk your life in order to bring about his arrest!" He inhaled deeply a few times and continued in a softer tone, "Sherlock … I …," _am driven completely and utterly bonkers by you …and I dread … and I admire …_, "… admire …," _Your defiance? Your bloody-mindedness? Your stubbornness?_, "… your tenacity and your …," _Boundless ardour? Zeal? Dedication?_, " … energy - and just like you I want justice and truth to prevail … but not at any cost."

John was afraid he had said too much. It was always like walking on eggshells to explain these emotional issues to Sherlock, without putting too much emotion in it on one's own account. He knew that danger was part of the business, and he needed the adrenalin rush as much as Sherlock did. However, he needed Sherlock more …

The detective looked intently at John, who met his gaze and allowed Sherlock's deductions. Slowly, Sherlock bent forward and reached hesitatingly towards John.

John didn't back away from him. Partly, because they were in the middle of a discussion and he wasn't planning on letting his friend get away with it just like that, by fleeing the room just because Sherlock was making approaches to him. On the other hand he had stopped blushing, which he was thankful for, and that enabled him to sit in his armchair, seemingly unperturbed, and to tear Sherlock off a strip. Lastly, Sherlock basically was just Sherlock, and John actually wasn't surprised that the most ingenious detective had felt himself above the law once more, and gotten into mischief again.

Tentatively, even timidly, Sherlock touched John's wrist.

Although John didn't blush, his heart jumped for joy involuntarily before starting to race madly, when Sherlock started to draw circles on John's skin with his thumb.

"John …," Sherlock said calmly, "I didn't jump off St. Bart's roof to throw away my life … or our relationship. And I certainly won't do that today."

Relationship. There it was again, the keyword. They would have to talk about it. Soon. Really soon now, or John really was going to have a coronary. Unfortunately, every time the subject emerged, John felt it wasn't the right moment to discuss it.

They looked at each other in silence for a little while, just as they had done several times in the past weeks, and yet again, John could have lost himself easily in his friend's eyes.

No, it definitely wasn't the right moment. He wanted to discuss the matter at the right time, not during an argument, or a case at all. He needed Sherlock's undivided attention, the attention of his mind as well as his heart – and he had no clue whatsoever when such a moment might occur in the near future.

"Alright," John finally said. "The gardener _nearly_ laid hold of you."

"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed and abruptly let go of John's wrist.

It wasn't hard to tell that he was gripped by the thrill of the chase. Cases came first. In some sense he really was married to his work. That wasn't about to change and John would have to accept that.

"I benefitted once more from our bustling about London, when I was forced to put on a quick burst of speed. Stamina pays off in the end after all," Sherlock continued.

"And you flirted with the girl?" John pressed him.

Sherlock shook his head. „She flirted_ at_ me. I don't do flirting, as you very well know."

John couldn't entirely agree with him, but didn't want to bring up the subject of their own flirtations, for Sherlock Holmes was deft enough at flirting when he wanted to be. That much was clear. "If you say so … So she was able to give you some information?"

"Fortunately, she told me about the domestic violence in the end. The time I was obliged to spend with her was torturous! She also provided access to the …let's say … archives of the church. There I was able to obtain Jack's data and an up-to-date photo."

"Not that as well …," John murmured, sighing.

Sherlock's triumphant smile even grew stronger, if that was possible after all. "And now, let's have a look at the photograph. Do you see anything there?"

John looked at the straight, severe face. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth and cold eyes.

"Is it like anyone you know?" Sherlock asked with a mischievous grin.

John looked quizzically at him.

Sherlock bent forward and spread his fingers over the photograph to hide Jack's hair and chin.

"Good heavens!" John exclaimed, "Melanie King's vanished husband." On Thursday evening Greg Lestrade had given them the photograph of the man, which Valerie Downer handed over to him the day before, and there was no doubt about the identity of the man before them.

"Exactly! This picture has supplied us with one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, John, we have him, and I dare swear before tomorrow night he'll fall into our clutches … and then the circle will be complete," Sherlock remarked, satisfied.

"And what now?"

"And now it is about time to set a trap for our dear friend."

Upon hearing Sherlock's words John couldn't help but feeling the thrill of the chase too. "What are you up to?"

"We'll bring him out of his shell. This afternoon we'll go to Aldershot as planned. Greg persuaded DI Davies, the idiot, to cooperate. Otherwise he could have said good-bye to any future promotion at all. Well, the police will turn up at the clinic and open the case all over again, conducting interviews and putting Jack through the wringer. Wiggins from the Homeless Network will keep an eye on Jack until then, so our friend won't be able to get out of there with his trophy collection. Since my night's work Jack will be a little bit worried after all."

"He isn't the only one," John mumbled.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, absent-mindedly. In his mind's eye he probably was already busy with the performance of the task ahead.

"You want to corner him," John remarked at normal volume.

"Indeed. Jack is under enormous pressure. After this afternoon he'll be forced to react," Sherlock replied. "Don't forget to bring your revolver with you, John. Could become a messy business."

"Forgetting my revolver when I am going out with you?" John returned drily. "I'm not suicidal."

Then, he asked himself silently, when chasing a serial killer had ever been a picnic at all.

* * *

><p>Mid-afternoon they had taken the train as planned, leaving at three from Waterloo station. As he had a week before, Sherlock had taken an immense litter of newspapers with him and treated himself to reading them silently now. Now and then he gave out some kind of grunt, suggesting that the police had either done something utterly wrong or nothing at all in the investigations he was reviewing. After they changed trains in Woking, Sherlock finally tossed the ball of papers into the luggage rack of their coach, and John dared to speak to him. Ever since John had begun trying to get to the bottom of the case and, simultaneously, to figure out their relationship, there was one thing he couldn't get out of his mind, and he wanted to bring up the subject carefully.<p>

"Sherlock, how high would the probability have been of Jack striking again before New Year if we had not have gotten on his track so quickly?"

Sherlock suddenly stiffened, and looked out of the window uneasily. "I don't know."

"Let's recapitulate what we know. Jack murdered five years ago for the first time. Two years later he killed again. Then he struck again three weeks ago," John said. "His homicidal tendencies may be on a rise, but somehow I cannot avoid the impression that he wouldn't have killed again a mere five weeks later. Which raises the question, _my dear_, why you didn't tell me?"

Sherlock shifted around in his seat uncomfortably and looked at John nervously. "Well…technically it is not possible to tell when exactly a serial killer will commit another murder. However, it is hardly likely that he would have killed again before New Year. But one never knows and…err…better to be safe than sorry."

John gave him a level look. "Then, _dearest_, I'd love to know why I had to get engaged to you for the sake of the case, instead of pretending to be engaged. May I remind you that it is no more than four weeks ago that you considered it essential for survival to tell our families, friends and the rest of the world about this blessed event."

"Err …," Sherlock started less than convincingly and looked away from John again. Then, his face suddenly relaxed. "Why, we're here already!" he exclaimed when the train slowed down and came to a stop. In next to no time the detective made off outside.

Inwardly, John counted to ten and inhaled deeply. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he had been relieved to end the discussion in this, John had to admit, rather elegant way. So John had no option but to wrestle with their bags on his own again.

Unfortunately, John wasn't able to resume the subject in the taxi either, since the cabbie engaged John in conversation about rugby and Sherlock gazed silently out of the window.

When they arrived at the clinic, Sherlock dashed out of the car in record time again, leaving it to John once more, to carry the bags.

What John saw next, deepened his frowning: The detective's relief at escaping the sensitive subject of their engagement apparently extended to rushing up to Anne and Ben in front of the clinic and engaging them in a lively conversation. Not only was he playing Prince Charming again, but he still looked drop dead gorgeous. The deep baritone sound of his voice when he laughed made John's skin prickle.

John sighed and walked over to the group. When he greeted Anne and Ben, Sherlock put his hand onto John's lower back as if that were an entirely normal thing for them to do. The touch sent a tingling through John's body, not unlike an electric shock, and his stomach was apparently doing a somersault.

Sherlock's flight told John that he wasn't entirely wrong with his presumptions, and he intended to give him a good talking to as soon as the case was settled. He could kill two birds with one stone by combining this with a discussion about the nature of their relationship since Sherlock was, after all, not the romantic type. John himself would have had reservations four weeks ago about linking a declaration of love with a case review, or in this case, a proper telling off, but by now John's frustration over his undeclared love was skyrocketing to new, heady heights – and he would love nothing more than shaking the answer out of his friend unceremoniously, right now. Even his angelic patience was currently decreasing rapidly.

* * *

><p>The late afternoon proceeded eventfully, both to Sherlock's amusement and displeasure. After afternoon tea the couples adjourned to Dr Martin's former consulting room, waiting excitedly for her replacement to lead their therapy group. Fortunately the police turned up at the agreed-on hour – once more like bulls in a china shop – to question the participants, saving John and Sherlock from another hour of emotional striptease. This time Greg Lestrade accompanied the policemen to direct the investigation into the right channels. Since the Aldershot murder was linked with the London Hotel murder by now, this gave him the ideal opportunity for joining the investigations officially. DI Davies unfortunately behaved nearly as badly as the time before, but since John and Sherlock were not to be questioned, contact was limited to a snarl as a greeting. Greg Lestrade personally questioned Jack and gave him a grilling. John assumed he was doing so on the advice of Sherlock.<p>

The consulting detective announced he was going to use the time to refine his plan for arresting Jack, and went on an expedition on his own, while John stayed behind alone and took advantage of the moment to catch up on some sleep. During his siesta he dreamed confusing things about guns, relentless pursuits and intertwined, naked limbs. He finally woke up, feeling unrested and irritated, as the horde of policemen, signalled their departure as noisily as they had announced their arrival. When Sherlock returned, John learned that they'd meet Greg again in the early evening to set a trap for Jack and settle the case.

An hour later they went downstairs to have dinner, and John noticed Iris's absence from the table where Jack, Howard, and Grace were seated. Maintaining a low profile, John drew Sherlock's attention to the situation and the detective nodded.

Then, Sherlock eased his way towards Jack, who was standing at the buffet and dragged John along. He came to a halt next to Jack and smiled at him artificially. "Ah, that looks good, doesn't it?" he purred. "I haven't seen Iris this evening. She didn't take the whole police thing too heart too much, I hope?"

Jack looked at him coolly. "She doesn't feel very well today, I'm afraid, and went to her room."

Underneath his cool exterior unmistakably prowled something dark and sinister.

John looked at them silently, feeling uneasy.

"Ah, that's a pity," Sherlock said. "It really is an ugly story after all, of course. Fortunately John and I weren't here when the murderer killed those poor people. Messy business. And considering that one of you is the killer …" Sherlock let fall a meaningful silence and shook his head. "Well, fortunately the police are hot on the scent. I heard the murder seems to be connected with other killings in the past," he continued with an air of fake shock. "In Kent and London."

Jack's posture stiffened noticeably and little beads of sweat were dripping off his forehead. "Yes, fortunately," he said in a strained voice. Then, he returned to his table without saying another word.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth were twitching slightly at the sight of Jack's retreat and, contrary to John's expectations, he even took a small helping of shepherd's pie.

Grinning he turned towards John. "Are you coming, luv, or are you putting down roots?"

"After you, my dear," John returned with a fake smile. Nothing else remained to be done, but to help himself and follow Sherlock towards their own table. John also settled for an exceptionally small helping, since he didn't know what the evening had in store for him. And should it require his top performance, he didn't want to go hunting with a full stomach.

During dinner Sherlock continued watching Jack blatantly, and he in turn looked at Sherlock again and again. In light of their behaviour John couldn't help feeling they had become the prey instead of being the hunters.

"Sherlock, what's the point of this all?" John whispered. "He smells a rat."

"My opening move," Sherlock answered laconically. "Like I said, the ground is moving under his feet. Iris is absent and that can only mean one thing: She's at Jack's mercy. Why? Maybe he's afraid she might talk or he needs to get rid of her in order to be able to vanish again himself. Anyway, we need to hinder him from putting his plan into action. He consults his watch suspiciously often and that makes me think, John. I believe it is about time. We better go."

"What are you up to? Searching for Iris?"

"No. Jack will lead us to her. He didn't have his gun with him. I checked that during our chitchat at the buffet. He'll have to go get it and his room is the most logical location to have hidden the gun. Remember, he also kept Melanie's photograph there. He wants to have these things nearby. Come. We'll take up our station in his room and wait for him."

"Shouldn't we wait for Greg?" John objected.

"I don't want to leave it to chance. If the whole thing isn't going according to plan, I want to be there, when it happens. Greg will join us soon enough."

John knew it was pointless to argue with the detective; he took hunting Jack down personally, not only because of Victor Trevor but also because of Jack's connection with Moriarty. Therefore, he silently he packed his things together without resistance and followed his friend outside.

* * *

><p>It turned out that Sherlock was right. They did not have to wait long after they forced entry into Jack's room and sought shelter behind the wardrobe. They crouched closer in the shadow as they heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic snap of a key, and Jack was in the room. He closed the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that all was safe, threw off his jacket, and walked up to the closet with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the doors open, pulled the unconscious Iris out of it, and dragged her heedlessly over the carpet towards the bed. Presently they heard the sound of a drawer opening, the shuffle of Jack searching through it, and the scuff as it slid back into place. Then, the sound of silencer being attached to a gun and the click as Jack cocked the revolver.<p>

Clearly their moment had come. Silently, John cursed the fact that Greg wouldn't be on guard yet.

Sherlock touched John's wrist as a signal, and together they stole across to the other side of the room. Gently as they moved, however, the old floor must have creaked under their feet, for the head of the killer, peering anxiously round, snapped into their direction. His face turned upon them with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as soon as he realized that two guns were pointed at his head.

But before Sherlock or John could make another move, Jack pointed his gun at Iris' head.

"I advise you to put you weapons down or she'll die instantly. "

They didn't anticipate this move; they had expected him to level his gun at them, had prepared to shoot him if necessary.

Sherlock slowly shook his head and let his gun fall down to the floor. John did the same, albeit grudgingly.

"Good and now, you'll kick them away."

They did as he told them.

Jack moved away from Iris and levelled his weapon at them.

That had not gone according to plan at all and now, unarmed and with Jack's revolver pointed at them, they were in serious trouble.

Facing mortal danger, John was outwardly calm as ever. His hands were steady as usual. He would be able to do what needed to be done at any moment. Inwardly though, he was very worried about their situation and he thought feverishly, searching for a solution that wouldn't come to his mind. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock, beside him, afraid that a sudden movement could make Jack pull the trigger, but he knew that his friend's mind was racing a thousand times faster than his, trying to find a way out of this. Thinking about Sherlock, he unsurprisingly realised that he somehow took comfort from his mere presence, and John fervently hoped that their romance, if one could refer to it as a romance yet, wouldn't go down in history as a tragedy à la Romeo and Juliet.

"Well, well!" Jack said coolly. "You consider yourself superior to me. You think you saw through my game, I suppose, but I was warned about you from the very beginning…"

Then several things happened at the same time.

Sherlock Holmes shouted "Ryder Street" with all his might – the scales fell from John's eyes because they had found themselves in a similar situation during the Ryder Street Adventure – and dove for his weapon, while John threw himself to the floor. His own weapon unfortunately was out of reach under a nearby chair.

Jack on the other hand had fired two shots in an instant. "Jim sends his love," Jack exclaimed, laughing.

In the same moment John felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to his thigh. He started to feel lightheaded and his vision blurred. Then, he started to feel as if he was going to pass out. Far away he heard a crash and a man crying out in agony. It was a heart-piercing cry and even though the voice didn't sound like Sherlock's, worrying about his friend brought him halfway back to his senses. Through half opened eyes had a blurred vision of Jack sprawling on the floor with blood running down his face while Sherlock rummaged his clothing for weapons.

A frisson of relief ran down John's back.

"Jim apparently forgot to tell you that the flirting is over!" the detective said darkly. "Pray that John's alright."

Jack only moaned as a reply.

As John tried to get back on his feet, wobbling, Sherlock's wiry arms were instantly round him, urging him to lie back down. He quickly got a chair and propped John's legs up on it, stabilizing his blood pressure.

Had John's leg not hurt that badly, he would have pouted when Sherlock moved away and the blissful physical contact dissolved. Or he would vehemently have seized him by the collar, pulling him back downward. But his leg hurt like hell and so he just groaned.

Sherlock bent over him. "Are you alright, John? For God's sake, tell me that you are not hurt!"

There was a hint of panic in his friend's voice.

It was worth the pain to see the cold mask slipping from Sherlock's face, deeply and genuinely anxious about John's state of health, about John himself. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. It was one of those rare occasions in which John caught his friend unguarded and vulnerable, being able to see straight into his heart.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. It's a mere scratch." However, it was one that hurt like hell.

He hadn't yet finished his sentence when Sherlock had already ripped open his trousers with his pocket-knife. "Hey, these were new," John protested weakly, but Sherlock paid no attention to his remark.

"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." Then, Sherlock's face set like stone as he glared at their prisoner, who was trying to sit up with a dazed face, handcuffed to the table leg. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive."

Jack appeared resigned to his fate, remaining silent. His face however was still contorted with pain.

Hearing Sherlock's words, which he didn't doubt were deadly serious, John involuntarily cringed. Then again, he couldn't help feeling proud, too, considering the fact that he had succeeded in capturing a place in Sherlock's heart. Thinking about that made him feel warm all over and he would have liked to fling his arms around Sherlock's neck and clasp him to his chest, then and there. "Would have" being the operative phrase, because in the current situation it would have been entirely inappropriate.

Instead of expressing his affection he motioned towards Iris, and Sherlock, who had relaxed somewhat, went over to the unconscious woman.

"She's drugged", he stated after having examined her and tested her reflexes.

John exhaled audibly, relieved. "Thank God."

At the same moment someone rattled the door and they could hear the muffled voices of Greg Lestrade and his officers. Sherlock quickly walked over to Jack and rummaged roughly through his clothing for the keys, the man crying out in agony again, a fact which left the detective completely cold. Then he went to the door and let the policemen in.

"For God's sake! I told you to wait for us! You cannot be left on your own for two hours," Greg Lestrade exclaimed with a hint of despair in his voice, entering the room with his subordinates.

His colleagues arrested Jack at once, while the paramedics took care of Iris.

"Unfortunately Jack didn't stick to the schedule," Sherlock replied, unmoved.

Just as Greg started to reply, his glance fell on John. "Jesus! John!"

"It's nothing, Greg," John reassured him. "Thanks to Sherlock's quick-wittedness it was a near miss."

At this point John deliberately suppressed the fact that the detective would have loved nothing better than to break their prisoner on the wheel, to quarter, and to shoot him just a moment ago. He contemplated it as a kind of Sherlock-style "declaration of love", but he had to admit that in terms of idiocy it matched his faked suicide. How a genius like him could come up with such utter rubbish again and again was beyond him.

Sherlock and John exchanged a meaningful look, which didn't evade Greg's attention, but the inspector was wise enough not to ask, since they went back a long way.

"Are you sure about that?" Greg asked, worried. "The paramedics could take a look at you in a moment."

"No, no," John dismissed the idea. "It's really nothing."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Please, send them over, when they have taken care of Iris."

"What? Why? Sherlock, I've told you, it's just a mere scratch," John raised his voice. "You said so yourself!"

"The bullet wound won't kill you, John, but… just to make sure, I'd like to confirm the diagnosis with a doctor," the detective replied.

"_I am a doctor."_

"Yes, and we all know that doctors make the worst patients one can imagine," Sherlock replied, unmoved.

At this point Greg couldn't suppress his smirk and nodded to the detective. "I will. Sorry, John, but I'm not starting an argument with your fiancé. Especially not when it comes to you. Besides a check-up won't hurt you."

John smiled artificially at them both. "Well, with friends like you, who needs enemies?"

"How good that you never force me to let the casualty doctor attend to my injuries – or worse, force me to be examined in the accident and emergency department," Sherlock returned. "I never hear you object when they say I have to stay the night."

"Your health is near and dear to me, and_ I_ am perfectly able to judge the injury severity. _I am a doctor_," John repeated stubbornly.

"Just now, _you _are the patient," Sherlock replied. "And _I_ am getting a second opinion."

John tried to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows, but the motion was frankly painful. "Please yourself," he finally said, resigning himself to Sherlock's wishes. Sighing, he lay back once more and acknowledged defeat. "You have me at your feet," he added in humorous acknowledgement of the situation and couldn't entirely choke back his laughter. Literally speaking as well as figuratively, he thought, and as humiliating the whole situation was on the one hand, John also realized a certain irony in it.

Sherlock could only watch his friend uncomprehendingly, frowning.

At the sight of Sherlock's facial expression, John couldn't help but dissolve into giggles. As the paramedics made their way to him to take care of his injury, he averted his eyes from his friend, trying to call a halt to his fit of giggles. Therefore, John only heard Sherlock whispering to the doctor a moment later, "Please be so kind as to screen him for head wounds too, will you?" which only led to John biting his lip to prevent bursting out laughing. He wondered whether the shock of being wounded or the loss of blood really made him a bit euphoric after all…

Fortunately the physician just confirmed John's own diagnosis, before cleaning and stitching up his wound, which John believed to be exorbitant and over-careful but nevertheless he didn't utter a word. Then the doctor dressed his wound and told him he needed to rest.

Sherlock answered John's look of reproach, which was meant to signal "What did I tell you?" with a shrug of his shoulders. Relief, however, was written all over his usually composed face.

While the paramedics put the finishing touches to John, Sherlock turned to the inspector again. "And Davies was called to another case?" He stated more than he asked their friend the whereabouts of the local inspector.

"He got into a scrap with me and was withdrawn from the case," Greg explained evasively. He didn't need to say more than that. Everyone present understood their quarrel was over Sherlock. The result of that argument also emphasised the essential role Sherlock played and how he deserved the status he had attained.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I suggest our returning to London while your officers conduct the crime scene investigations here. I'll drop John at home and meet you at the Yard afterwards to conclude the case."

John's sounds of protest were deliberately disregarded by Sherlock.

And while Sherlock's face slowly started to gleam with pleasure over the successful conclusion of the case, this time John was only able to share his joy half-heartedly. With the case closed, John now would have to find the courage to suit his actions to his thoughts and to finally address the affair of his heart.


	22. Uncertainty

**This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much!  
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**Thanks for your reviews, alerts etc. Unfortunately I am not always able to thank everyone personally. You must know that I appreciate your feedback, though. There's one more chapter to come...**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter twenty-two<span>

John had been confined to the sofa by Sherlock the moment they returned home two days ago. At first, Sherlock had wanted to put him in his own room, because he didn't want him to climb the stairs to John's room. When John had insisted on climbing up the seventeen stairs to their flat, he had to lean on Sherlock and hop on one leg. He had insisted vehemently that this wouldn't be a problem before Sherlock came up with the idea of carrying him. He had already been angry because he wasn't allowed to accompany Sherlock to Scotland Yard, since the detective insisted on him following the doctor's instructions to rest. After having had a heated argument on the matter, they agreed on John resting in the living room. That way he had at least been able to watch some television.

This evening John scowled at the bustling activity of his flat mate, whom he was watching from the sofa and who bustled between his bedroom and the living room, indecisively, worrying over the choice of his clothing. Since John, who usually looked after the financial aspects of Sherlock's business, was indisposed, Sherlock had to transact business himself this evening, making a call on Victor Trevor – and John was driven insane by that fact itself. Added to that, Sherlock's constant concern got on his nerves, although he knew that it was well-meant and somehow even thought of it as sweet.

Unfortunately, the previous two days did not contribute to improving his mood. On the one hand Sherlock insisted that John stick to their bargain and to make things worse, he even monitored John's activities. That inevitably resulted in John spending the nights on the sofa, ending their intimate togetherness at night abruptly. Sherlock seemed to be afraid to sleep in John's room without him and proceeded to sleep in his own bed again, if he slept at all and didn't spend the night somewhere else, probably at St. Bart's laboratory. This development threw John into a state of slight panic because he didn't know how things were going to develop when his leg recovered. They had not had the clarifying conversation yet and since their return home, they had exchanged no more endearments.

It was enough to make you crazy!

If John had his gun to hand, he would have been sorely tempted to adorn the opposite wall with a piece of art done in bullet-pocks himself.

"Are you absolutely sure that the sofa serves the purpose?" Sherlock broached the subject for what felt like the hundredth time, when he came back into the living room, eyeballing John's sitting position incredulously.

Apparently he had decided to put one of his perfectly tailored suits together with a petrol blue shirt; a combination in which he looked extremely attractive as John noticed once more, cursing inwardly.

He had to inhale deeply three times, before he assured himself that he was able to maintain his self-control more or less. "_Sherlock_ …"

"John, I'm not so sure about that …"

"SHERLOCK! Give it a rest …," John flared up, exasperated, "… Good God, you're behaving like an overprotective mother hen."

Sherlock looked at him dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

John disregarded Sherlock's expression, which illustrated the detective's disapproval of the comparison he had made. "You'll only be gone for a few hours and I promise faithfully that I will be good as gold and stay put," he added. He didn't manage to banish the sarcasm from his voice entirely.

Before Sherlock could offer any witty backchat in reply to John, his phone rang. When he read the name that was lighting up on the display, he frowned. "Mycroft," was all he said, when he answered it. He tensed while listening to his brother's voice. The seconds ticked away and the dark look on Sherlock's face deepened.

Unfortunately John wasn't able to make out what it was all about since he could only hear Mycroft's voice faintly. Based on Sherlock's facial expression, the detective wasn't too happy with the things he heard.

Then Sherlock huffed scornfully. "How wonderful," he finally replied, making a face. He listened intently for another moment, took a deep breath and shook his head. "No, Mycroft. That won't be necessary. Thanks anyway!" With that said, he concluded the call.

John looked at his friend expectantly.

Sherlock however shook his head, indicating to John with a wave of his hand he would have to wait just a moment, and strode out of the room, downstairs to Mrs Turner, who was in Mrs Hudson's flat, checking whether everything was in order, as John could tell from the thuds which reached upstairs.

A moment later he heard a soft knock, followed by Sherlock's voice.

However, after a few seconds John realized with disappointment that they were talking too quietly for him to hear a word of what was said. He inwardly cursed his injured leg; the wound was burning and made it hard for John to move.

Then, he heard a loud groan, undoubtedly from his friend, who came upstairs a little while later, looking as miserable as sin.

"What happened?" John asked, worried.

"We might have a problem," the detective answered evasively.

John watched him closely and his concern mounted up. Only now he noticed that Sherlock carried the evening newspaper in his hand. "Sherlock, please tell me what happened."

Wordlessly Sherlock held out the front page to John.

John only needed to have one quick look at the paper to know exactly what was wrong, suddenly understanding Sherlock's behaviour. There was a picture of them both embedded into the title story: "Sherlock Holmes unravels mystery of Aldershot murders – Scotland Yard was clueless."

In spite of himself he reached for the newspaper Sherlock was handing to him, and flipped through the article, which highlighted the details of the case as well as Sherlock's brilliance in detail. When he was halfway through the article, he realized that Victor Trevor had given an exclusive interview in which he vented his displeasure concerning the police's way of thinking and acting and expressed his admiration for Sherlock at the same time The name of the infernal ex alone wasn't exactly helping to raise his spirits, but his morale absolutely plummeted when he realized that the gentleman in question had given away private details of John and Sherlock's relationship.

John swallowed hard. His eyes paused over and over again at the same sentence, which stated that Sherlock Holmes had recently gotten engaged to his personal assistant and blogger.

He breathed a sigh. If indeed there had been anybody left in London, or rather Great Britain, who hadn't heard of the blessed event yet, then even that person would be well-briefed by now. John didn't yet know what to make of this new and unexpected development, but when he looked surreptitiously at Sherlock, the look of misery on his friend's face pierced him right to the heart. Sherlock knew that John hated publicity as much as he did – especially when the press tried to lift the lid on the nature of their relationship.

In next to no time John forgot about his own discomfort. Now was the time to exercise prudence. He really hated this kind of media circus, but he didn't want Sherlock to draw the wrong conclusions from his own reaction. Thinking about it, John had to admit that as far as Victor Trevor was concerned, it didn't come amiss that their engagement was being shouted from the rooftops. "Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said low-voiced, his voice was no more than a feeble whisper by now.

John plucked up his courage and took the plunge. "The article is fine with me," he said, wary in the choice of words. "There's nothing absolutely false in it for a change, and you undoubtedly deserve the praise."

Sherlock raised his head. He looked intently at John, a touch of surprise visible on his face.

"With the great gifts you have, fame is inevitable, Sherlock. It's good for business to be in the papers now and then. Let's just try not to make it a Reichenbach media thing again," John continued and smiled encouragingly at him. Then he cleared his throat and looked squarely into his eyes. "This has been one of your masterpieces. I know you're going to be the greatest detective of all time and it is a great honour to be your partner and witness that process."

John's words had a visible effect on Sherlock, who was moved and smiled almost timidly. "You've been very helpful to me, as always."

The doctor returned his smile. "You're the master of deduction. I'm just keeping your options open and backing you up."

"Two make this pair," Sherlock replied softly.

For a while, the two looked at each other and the air around them electrified. There was definitely _something_ between them. That was not to be denied, even if nothing was really going on between him and the detective at this moment. In addition, John had noticed that Sherlock, like himself, had not removed his engagement ring. Of course, that could well be due to the fact that he planned to visit Victor that evening. Nevertheless, the fact spurred a hope to which he clung like a straw, and, aware of this, he told himself again to be patient.

"Well, I better dash off," Sherlock said after another intense look, which gave John goose bumps. "I'll probably have to use Mrs Hudson's backyard. The vultures are already besieging sidewalk."

Before he could suit the action to the word, they heard loud voices outside the house coming from the street, followed by the angry voice of Greg Lestrade, who shouted alternately towards the reporters "No comment" and "For Heaven's sake, let me through!"

A moment later, he apparently had actually managed to find a way through the crowd for the doorbell rang, and the door was opened cautiously for him by Mrs Turner and immediately closed behind him.

"Disgusting people," the policeman cried out, sighing. After some pleasantries he ran up the stairs. When he entered, the anger was still written on his face. "Sherlock, John," he greeted them, out of breath.

"Do you have a new case?" Sherlock asked curiously, and, as John could tell, hopefully.

Greg smiled at the detective. "You've just solved one."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm actually here about the Aldershot case," Greg said and took a seat in John's chair.

Sherlock sat down across from him. "How can I help you?"

"Um ... well actually I'm here to speak on behalf of the Yard to thank you and to congratulate you on this masterpiece," Greg said.

Sherlock and John looked at him surprised. This situation was unusual for all of them.

A long moment they sat in silence together.

"Well," Greg started. "I've already seen you solving many cases in amazing ways, but this was something special. You know, at Scotland Yard, we are not jealous of you. We are actually very proud of you."

"Um ... thanks," was all that Sherlock said.

John, who had known him for some time now, could see that he was not indifferent to the detective's praise, but rather enjoyed the kind and honest words.

"You're welcome," Greg said. "That simply had to be said ... So, then, I will not keep you any longer. Unfortunately, there's a terrible amount of paperwork waiting for me."

"That can wait. Why not just stay for a while with John?" Sherlock asked. "I have to go out, but I'm sure John would appreciate the company."

John knew that Sherlock made the suggestion first and foremost to keep him busy and have him under supervision, but company really was better than getting bored at home alone and worrying about Victor Trevor. "Why not stay for tea?" John asked in turn. Normally, they would meet for a beer, but the DI was still on duty, and they would have to make do with something non-alcoholic.

"I wouldn't say no to that," Greg said. "Do you really want to confront the pack?" he then asked, turning to Sherlock, who was already halfway out of the door.

"Backyard," Sherlock called out, dashing down the stairs.

* * *

><p>When the doorbell rang an hour later again, John looked up in surprise. Greg had already returned to the Yard, and he could not imagine who would visit them at this late hour. It wasn't a client. Even John was able to deduce this from the style of ringing by now. Immediately afterwards he heard the voice of his brother-in-law-to-be, and he closed his eyes in disbelief for a moment. Bad luck seemed to follow him. He had never seen Mycroft so often as in the past few weeks. Only now he realized that he could no longer hear the reporters down on the street.<p>

"Good evening, John," said Mycroft in greeting as he entered the living room. The handle of the umbrella, which was so characteristic of him, was draped over his arm. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in everything.

"Good evening, Mycroft," John said. Although Mycroft was so different from his younger brother, the sharp, grey-blue eyes of the elder reminded John distinctly of Sherlock himself. In these moments of realization that the two were unmistakably brothers, he found asking himself again and again what might have happened in the past that caused them to drift apart.

Mycroft sat down in Sherlock's chair, without being asked, and looked at John, who was sitting on the sofa with countless pillows in the back and under his propped-up leg, to allow him to sit comfortably. "My brother cares for you in an exemplary manner, I see," he remarked with an opaque smile.

"That's debatable," John murmured in a tone almost pouting, whereupon Mycroft's smile only intensified.

"Besides, he is not at home," John added, although he was sure that Mycroft knew that already.

"Excellent. I would like to talk with you, John," Mycroft replied. "In private, of course, and since you're ... indisposed, I thought, I'd better make a call instead of inviting you for a ride."

Which, in John's view, represented nothing more than a euphemism for his regular kidnapping episodes. "Very prudent of you," he replied. "How did you actually get past the vultures?"

"I had the road sealed off half an hour ago," Mycroft replied matter-of-factly.

The fact in itself by no means surprised John. He knew Mycroft had excellent connections. But that he took the trouble at all, surprised him nevertheless.

"You look exhausted, John. I'm sure this case has taken its toll."

John stiffened visibly. "You came here to talk to me about the case?" he asked, uncomfortably and instinctively held his breath. For a long moment he feared that Mycroft knew about the faked engagement.

"Well," Mycroft replied. "The case was remarkable, as we all read. Sherlock has outdone himself once again and I'm sure you played a not insignificant role, John ... but no, I did not come because of the case itself. I came because of a name, which I happened to read in connection with the case in the newspapers today," he said.

John looked at him expectantly.

"Victor Trevor," Mycroft said.

John breathed out as quietly as possible. He didn't want to show his relief over Mycroft's ignorance of the engagement. "Victor Trevor?" he asked instead, flabbergasted.

"I suppose you know about him and Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

John involuntarily contorted his face. "Hmmm," he answered evasively. However, "know about" already clearly said too much, John thought.

"Will Mr Trevor become a problem?" Mycroft asked bluntly.

John frowned. "A problem?"

"You look worried, John, and if you're worried, I'm starting to worry myself," Mycroft replied gravely.

John hoped fervently that the elder Holmes wouldn't offer to fix the "problem" permanently for him next.

"You know, John ... Mr Trevor treated my brother really badly back then. I don't want to experience this situation a second time, if you know what I mean."

John felt as if he were in a bad movie. He hadn't even discussed the matter with his beloved, and now he sat here, with the British government in person, who was trying to discuss that very matter confidentially. On the other hand, John could understand Mycroft's concern, since things had gone downhill with Sherlock after Victor Trevor left him.

He looked intently at Sherlock's brother, with what he hoped was a determined look on his face. "Mycroft, I appreciate your concern, but I trust your brother with my life ..."

_Which, on reflection, was almost a miracle in itself._

"... I guess I also have to trust him with my heart ..."

_That's where the suicide mission came into play._

"... I'm afraid he has to sort this out on his own."

John was aware that a relationship with Sherlock would be different from all the relationships he'd had before. He knew it could only work if he trusted him in love just as he did in their friendship, and if the two of them could be themselves. It made no sense to demand things of Sherlock just because they were proper or because others expected them of him. John knew very well it was perfectly possible that he would get absolutely no non-case-related attention for days on end, when Sherlock was hot on the trail. And it would most certainly not be very conducive to their love, if he tried to keep the detective on a short leash ...

For a while they looked at each other in silence. Then Mycroft cleared his throat and looked intently at John with a straight face. "If the situation does not develop as desired, do not hesitate to contact me, John."

John replied with a silent nod. He would not turn to the MI6 or whoever in the event of relationship stress, and Mycroft Holmes wasn't at the top of his list of confidants with whom he would discuss his frustration. In fact, he was not on it at all. He would only deem such an action necessary in case a disaster beyond all expectations occurred…

"Well, I can only hope that my brother knows what's good for him for a change," Mycroft said.

Mentally John could only subscribe to his thinking …


	23. The confession

**My dearest readers: this is it. The last chapter. Nine months after starting the whole story as some sort of experiment to see whether there are people who would be interested in reading it, I've actually finished it. I'm still very grateful and amazed by the number of fellow Sherlockians who seem to appreciate my work. Thank you very much for all of your alerts and reviews, your kind words, your support and your suggestions. I couldn't have done it without you. . **

** ATeapotInATempest: Thank you for the great beta work you have done so far! **I hope you are all right. Please contact me if you read this. ****

****This chapter is betad by JustBeAQueen. Thank you so much for betaing the remaining chapters. You did a great job!  
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** Nothing else remains to be done for me now but to thank you one last time. You're great. I hope you approve of the end. Please let me know what you think of it. If you like it, please let other people know as well ;-) Enjoy!**

****By the way, I'm writing a new Sherlock story which I will upload soon. Maybe, you'd like to read it as well? I'd appreciate that very much. See you (hopefully) soon!  
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><p><span>Chapter twenty-three<span>

Even if John didn't let Mycroft's visit get to him, it certainly had given him food for thought. He needed to talk to Sherlock. Tonight! Even though he was not sure that he had gathered the courage he needed for addressing this matter, he definitely would not survive another day in this agonizing uncertainty. He felt completely deprived of the innocent touching, tender embraces and kisses that drove him out of his mind; forced to watch from the sofa as Sherlock distanced himself from John, not knowing whether this was due to uncertainty on Sherlock's side or there was another reason.

The matter had to be resolved once and for all.

After Mycroft had gone, John went back and forth, wondering how he could bring up the subject best. At first he briefly considered lighting some candles, pouring wine, and to do the things he normally did when he approached the person of his romantic interest. However, he immediately rejected the idea. Sherlock wasn't just another romantic interest. This was Sherlock, who would not only think the typical romantic gestures as dull and boring, but he would deduce, probably incorrectly, John's attempt at still playing the game. It did not feel right and the alcohol would have done more harm than good. He needed to have his wits about him when he dealt with Sherlock after all. Ultimately, he decided to address the problem directly and contented himself with tea.

Deep in thought, he sipped his tea and wondered about the course of events that might follow. However, he had to be patient for another hour before he heard Mrs. Hudson's door, followed by gentle steps on the stairs, clearly belonging to Sherlock. The detective had apparently taken the backyard for the second time this evening.

Sherlock stooped in the doorway, scrutinizing the room thoroughly. Then he made a grim face. "Mycroft was here," he finally said. "What did he want now?"

John's heart was pounding like mad as he watched his friend carefully. "Irrelevant," he answered evasively. "I'll tell you later. How's Victor?"

He knew that Sherlock saw through the maneuver, but for the moment he said nothing about Mycroft and let John do as he liked. "So far so good," replied the detective. "He and Jones will go on holiday for a few weeks in order to recover. Obviously, the poor bloke still doesn't have nerves of steel," he added blankly.

John held his breath. "Was it hard for you?" he asked, and avoided looking at his friend.

Sherlock raised his head. "What?"

"To say good-bye."

Sherlock looked at him intently. "No," he finally answered. "Why should it?"

"Maybe because you still feel something for him?" John asked cautiously.

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. Victor is a veritable bundle of nerves. I doubt that he would be a great friend of chopped off heads in the fridge."

"That I can understand very well," John admitted. "Neither am I, because that's disgusting."

Sherlock grinned. "You tolerate it though."

"You see, you can consider yourself lucky," John countered and then continued asking his actual question. "So that chapter is closed?"

"As I told you before John, Victor Trevor is over and done with. I must admit though that it was useful to see him again. Now we both know that the other is alright," Sherlock said with an unfamiliar openness in terms of his emotional life.

John nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he raised his eyes to the gift that Mycroft had given him a few weeks ago, still lying gift-wrapped on the mantelpiece. He had often wondered what was in it, but he actually had not yet plucked up the courage to unwrap it. After all, at the time it was given to him, he was not really Sherlock's fiancé, and what he would be in the future still remained to be seen. Mycroft had not commented on this fact, fortunately.

Sherlock's voice brought him back to the present. "By the way, John. Are you trying to deduce the contents of the gift?" he asked doubtfully, then added, "Why didn't you unwrap it, anyway? "

John took a deep breath and finally looked at Sherlock. "We need to talk, Sherlock." He tried to banish any commanding tone out of his voice, but sounding serious about the matter nevertheless. This wasn't about telling him where to get off. Although he originally had intended to do so at the beginning of this whole debacle, but clarifying the situation was far more important to him. This was going to be _the _declaration.

Thinking about it, John almost wished that he had settled for some alcohol.

"We are talking already," Sherlock remarked and hung his coat on the door.

John smiled nervously. "Um ... this is going to be heart to heart talk then, I think."

Sherlock looked miserable as sin, but nevertheless resigned himself to his fate in silence. He motioned John with a brittle wave of his hand to proceed, slumping unceremoniously into his chair. "What have I done wrong now?"

John stood up with difficulty and under loud protest of the detective - "John, stop it! You need to rest your leg"- and limped over to him. Then, he sat down nervously in his own chair. "Nothing, Sherlock. You did nothing ... and, actually, everything."

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

When John saw his puzzled face, he chuckled humorlessly to himself and buried his face in his hands. If this was going wrong, John had a serious problem. Then, he banished the thought and he called himself to order.

_Direct__. Quick and easy._

He rubbed his hands briefly over his face, before he raised his head, sighing, and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "I want ... you."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. John could see that he was thinking about his words quickly, trying to place them in the proper context. "To do what?" he asked skeptically. Then he wrinkled his nose. "Have you found the eyeballs in the microwave?"

"There are eyeballs again in the microwave? Sherlock, how many times…," John started but quickly thought better of it. "Forget about the eyeballs. We're getting off topic."

"I don't know what you're on about, John." There was a hint of frustration in Sherlock's voice. "I wonder if you could do me the great kindness of considering the possibility of enlightening me?"

John disregarded his sarcasm. "That I want you, Sherlock."

"Yes, John, I'm getting that part. But WHAT do you want me to do? I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock exclaimed impatiently. Then he stopped midway in the movement and one moment later the expression of impatience on his face changed into understanding. "Oh," he said. Apparently realization had hit him. "Of course…our agreement," he continued whispering, more to himself than to John. "Stupid," he berated himself. "Obvious …Well, err, John, I'll rectify the whole engagement affair first thing in the morning. I, err, sort of forgot about it." He looked quite clearly like a picture of misery.

Alarm bells started ringing in John's head. "No," he answered quickly. "Don't."

Sherlock frowned in bewilderment. "No?"

"Err, no. That won't be necessary… I hope," John replied. "Look, Sherlock, I know this is all new to us and kind of …uhm … unforeseen, but there's no addition to it. I just want you. That's all."

"In what sense?" Sherlock was on guard, still being puzzled.

"Oh, my goodness. Don't play so dumb. Dumb doesn't suit you," John blurted out in frustration. Reluctantly, he abandoned his armchair, knelt down on the floor in front of the detective, placing both hands on either side of his armchair. He tried to ignore the sharp pain in his leg. Their fingers didn't yet touch, but the very proximity sent electric tingles through the back of John's hand. He continued in a softer, more patient voice, keeping in mind, that this was not only the moment he had eagerly anticipated for several days now, but also his declaration of love, which should be uttered tenderly and in Sherlock's case also very carefully, considering his aversion for sentiment.

"Sherlock, I am still wearing your ring, and I have observed that you haven't taken off yours either. If you don't want me to wear your ring any longer, then please tell me so right now. You are too kind as to hurt my feelings wittingly. If you only want friendship and end this … situation, then that's definitely one of the ways. It will be very difficult for me, but I'll try to forget every loving moment we have shared during the case, and you can try to delete these experiences. Our friendship is not at stake, I promise you this. But I need to know what you want."

For now Sherlock said nothing, staring fixedly at John. He was obviously still struggling to process the information.

John saw that it was complex and difficult and really quite impossible to explain his feelings to Sherlock without uttering the dreaded L-word. However, he was also unsure how Sherlock might react if he would use it.

John took a deep breath again, before he decided to take his chance. "You know, at first you overwhelmed me with your idea of the engagement, and the whole story you made up along with it. One moment I was eating my toast and the next moment I had a ring on my finger. I couldn't understand what was happening. At first the acting drove me out of my mind, but then you took my hand and kissed me and we came closer and closer. I began to realize that I feel more than friendship for you, so the last few weeks have been even more difficult for me," he finally said. "I mean, I am a man in his forties, and I simply did not expect to question my sexual identity. I have never been interested in a man before. Please don't take this the wrong way. I've always loved you, in a friendly, brotherly way, but obviously there always had also been something more … I just couldn't see it ... or just didn't want to see that," John explained, reaching for Sherlock's hands and intertwining them with his own. "If you don't have an answer for me right now, that's fine too. Please, just tell me how much time you'll need to figure things out. I really need to know where I stand with you."

"More than friendship?" Sherlock said, partly asking, partly remarking.

"Yes," John affirmed. "Look, Sherlock. I know that all this is very difficult for you, too. But the letter I wrote to you ... I meant every word it said. I know you to the core. There is nothing you could do or say that could drive me away from you. I know exactly what I am committing myself to. You can always count on my love and friendship."

For a while they looked at each other in silence. The seconds ticked away and John became noticeably more nervous. His heart was pounding in his throat. He fervently hoped that his shot wasn't going to backfire…

"I'm not particularly good at this, John, but I want to give it a try," Sherlock said. "I know that I am not an ideal partner, and I could probably enumerate all the disadvantages that a relationship with me entails, but as you have already said, you know me very well. I will most likely either overlook or forget all the things that you deem socially important... But ... I'm willing to try it, John."

John exhaled audibly, relieved. For the first time in weeks he felt as if a burden had fallen from his shoulders. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give." He squeezed Sherlock's hands once more reassuringly before letting go, slowly getting to his feet and sank back into the chair behind him. His leg couldn't bear the pain any longer, and he didn't want to rush Sherlock in this situation, which was undoubtedly equally relieving as difficult for both of them. They would need time to come to terms with these new circumstances and adapt.

Sherlock smiled at him shyly. "You had suspicions during the case. You've been surprised about Victor and you've been curious. Were you shocked, John? Scared? Disgusted? That I have felt all this for him ... and now for you? "

"No, of course not," John replied, shaking his head. "What do you take me for? I am glad that you have not deprived yourself completely from love. I was simply surprised that you have chosen me as Victor's successor, where you could have had anyone. Or at least a lot of people. And I naturally asked myself what happened to 'love is a dangerous disadvantage'. "

"Love is only a dangerous disadvantage if it carries the unwanted chemical defects found in the losing side. But you don't affect my mind in this very unpleasant way, John. You don't meddle with my brain. You stimulate me," Sherlock said with a grin. "You're simply unbeatable as a conductor of light."

John involuntarily thought of Dartmoor and couldn't suppress a smile. This was undoubtedly Sherlock's manner to express his feelings. It would take time to bring him permanently out of his shell. From time to time Sherlock gave him insights, and what John saw pleased him very much. So much so that he gladly invested vast amounts of time and patience in his friend. In the meantime, he would have to put up with the half-humorous, half-cynical tone, which was a sign of familiarity with Sherlock. That was all right. John didn't cherish the illusion that it would be easy.

"There's one thing I don't understand. Why did you insist on us being engaged for real, except for my bad acting abilities?"

Sherlock smiled faintly and his face assumed a sad expression for a moment. "John, you must understand that Victor had really meant a lot to me back then and his breaking up really did hurt," he said in an unusually faltering way of speaking. John did not interrupt him and sat there motionless. He didn't want to divert him unnecessarily or perhaps even stop the flow of words. He saw it as a sign of confidence in him and in their fledgling relationship that he was trying to open up to him and to tell something so personal and painful.

"I was completely overwhelmed by all the negative feelings and had put myself on a very dark path as you know. Heartbreak and boredom are a very dangerous combination. When Victor suddenly showed up on that Monday afternoon four weeks ago, all the stashed-away feelings that I had distanced myself so carefully from also re-emerged," Sherlock said. "I didn't want to open Pandora's box again, but he had stirred my feelings. Not for him, but for you. I was perfectly content with the way things were between us. After all, I did not know what you felt, although I noticed, of course, that the boundaries between us became more and more vague through these months. All afternoon I weighed the pros and cons, and when you came home it quickly became quite clear to me that I couldn't simply block out the emotions again. You remember the fact that we sat together in the living room?"

"It struck me that you were behaving ... somehow peculiar," John replied. That explained at least Sherlock's hours of staring at him that night.

"I had to know, whether you would approve of a relationship or not and how you would react if you were forced to try it with me. I finally decided to use the case to conduct an experiment by Monday evening. I needed to know for sure how you felt about me and I needed to explore my own feelings. I'm sorry, John, but I couldn't just ask you," he said, shrugging. "I thought that a relationship simply wasn't meant for me, and I put the whole thing behind me. I tried it with Victor and it went wrong. Until four weeks ago I was not aware that I saw you this way; that I wanted you ... wanted 'us'. This case simply offered the perfect solution for my little problem. There is nothing like first-hand evidence. Unfortunately, I couldn't draw any firm conclusions, although your signals were hopeful. I know you're a man of your word and, therefore, I did not know whether you really felt something for me or if you simply were standing by our agreement. You know, I never theorize before having collected all the data. Otherwise one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."

John might have been angry, and in the face of Sherlock's experiment maybe he should have been angry, but otherwise they probably would never have gotten together. "Neither did I realize it ... and now I can hardly imagine anything else. You are such a remarkable actor, that I myself was also completely insecure whether your affection was part of your role or not. It drove me crazy. The last two days were plain hell, Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "I missed … 'us'."

They exchanged a meaningful look, smiling familiarly at each other.

"But why not just fake a relationship? Why immediately insist on an engagement?" John continued after a moment.

"To begin with, because you really are a terribly bad liar, and if we had faked the whole thing, you'd probably slipped a word involuntarily by exclaiming that you're not actually gay as soon as a pretty lady would have fluttered her eyes at you."

"That is one of the most ridiculous things you've ever said!" John exclaimed.

"Really? Your testosterone level is actually quite obstructive now and then. Maybe you would have removed the ring for the sake of the young lady, said or done anything, and thus given us away. I simply had to prevent such an event. Hence the engagement."

John decided to leave it at that, since he had a sneaking suspicion that the whole thing was quite a testimony to Sherlock's own jealousy. "You said 'to begin with'."

"Maybe in a very unconscious way the ring also had been a kind of reassurance that you are not like Victor and that I may not assume you were leaving me just like that. In addition, it was a visible sign for Victor that I really was over him. In fact I believe that he still felt a little guilty in relation to his departure from my life."

John shook his head. "I must say that you have very strange reasons for putting a ring on my finger."

Sherlock smirked slightly. "I haven't told you yet that I really like that ring on your finger." Obviously Sherlock had recovered a part of his self-confidence that he had shown in the past few weeks on a relationship level.

"Really? Why? You bought the rings yourself, didn't you? You've really given a lot of thought to this whole engagement story."

Sherlock crossed his legs and put his fingers together under his chin, looking closely at John. "Because the ring is an official statement. 'No fooling around with this man. Property of Sherlock Holmes ' And yes, I bought them myself," the detective said.

His keen looks gave John goose bumps. In Sherlock's eyes he could see more than the usual curiosity and his thirst for knowledge. Now, there was unmistakably a kind of desire in them. And hunger. Like a predator on the hunt, he thought. These thoughts inevitably led to other thoughts considering bedroom activities, and, even though he knew that the road would inevitably lead them there sooner or later, the thought of it also made him quite nervous. He would need time for this and he would take his time for the sake of them both, and he wanted to make sure that Sherlock knew exactly what he was committing himself to, of course.

John met his gaze. "You're right. I'm not like Victor. I'm not someone who runs away as soon as life isn't kind to him. I will not leave you. But you do know that I'm going to hurt you nevertheless, right?" John asked. "Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, but trusting him not to. But no one can promise you that he'll never hurt you, one time or another, it will inevitably happen. Sooner or later, I will hurt you, just as you will hurt me. The real promise is that the time you spend together, is a compensation for the pain suffered."

"Then it will be worth every second," Sherlock said with a hint of impatience in his voice, rolling his eyes. "John, in the past four weeks I certainly have thought about the consequences of my experiment. And no, I do not see things through rose-coloured glasses all of a sudden. You drive me insane often enough, and you would like to launch me into outer space probably more than once a day. This will not change anything at all."

John, who was accustomed to his friends' behavior, didn't expect that this would change either, just because they were a couple now, and sighed. "I do not doubt it. Just let's take things slow, okay? "

"How slow?" Sherlock asked and at the sight of his friend's impatience John eventually had to smile involuntarily.

"The slowest slow, Sherlock. I like what we have now. I really love you, but please give me some time to get used to it. So please, no quantum leaps for the moment."

Sherlock grimaced and shrugged. "That's up to you ..."

The sight of the pouting detective gave John an idea. It could not hurt to follow up his declaration of love with deeds just to be sure, so his friend would not draw the wrong conclusions from his restraint. "Would it bother you if I were to carry out an experiment of my own now?"

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Experiment?"

"On you," John added.

"On Me?"

John nodded. "Yes, it's vital, please."

"If you think that is absolutely necessary ... all right. Please proceed."

"Definitely. Would you mind turning out the lights for me?" John asked with an apologetic look at his leg.

Sherlock frowned. "If you insist ...," he finally replied, stood up and walked over to switch off the light.

"Very well," John said as the room was shrouded in darkness. "And now, please sit down again."

When Sherlock had re-established himself in his seat, John hauled himself out of the armchair and positioned himself in front of Sherlock. Then he rested his hands on the armrests of the chair and leaned slowly down to him. With every inch that John closed the gap between them, his heart beat a little faster. The darkness added a complete new dimension to the situation. And though he knew that Sherlock could see exceptionally well in the dark, he knew that the detective could not rely on his sense of sight alone. He would involuntarily be forced to feel, and to surrender to the moment ... He paused and licked his lips in anticipation of the kiss. He heard Sherlock holding his breath. Then, finally, he pressed his lips to his friend's. His kisses slowly wandered along his chin, along his cheek to his ear and back down again. Sherlock gradually relaxed and when John reached his lips again, he felt how Sherlock smiled into the kiss.

"How's your experiment going?" Sherlock asked mischievously when John reluctantly broke apart from him.

"Very well, I think."

"Do you like it?"

"Why don't you just deduce me?" John whispered defiantly.

"You or the experiment?" Sherlock teased him.

"Me," John whispered to him.

"You're breathing hard. Your pulse is elevated. You're in a clear state of arousal. Even though I can't see you, I think that your pupils are dilated and have blushed. Your skin is probably pink by now. "

"Thanks for stating that," John groaned in mock indignation.

"I think it's adorable when you're blushing, John. I like to think that you succumb to my charms."

"Interesting. So you get a kick out of the idea that I am subject to your charms," John whispered.

"No," Sherlock replied in a deep voice. "Actually, I get a kick out of you."

When faced with Sherlock's disarming frankness, John involuntarily grinned. Sherlock quickly learned, concerning the flirting. "So, you like this, too."

"Hmm, I'm not yet sure about that," Sherlock replied with feigned uncertainty. "I do not have all the evidence yet."

"I could provide some evidence if you'd like?" John offered.

"That would be appropriate."

The kiss that followed had nothing in common with the kiss they had exchanged minutes before. Sherlock, who intensified the kiss, pulled John further down to him, so that he was forced to let go of the armrests and to support himself with his hands on Sherlock's shoulders in order to keep himself from falling down. Their lips parted and their tongues took up where they had left off at Aldershot. Finally, John also gave himself up to the moment and sat down instinctively on Sherlock's lap, whereupon the detective pulled him even closer and clasped his hips. John's fingers clung to Sherlock's shirt collar, while they explored and caressed each other. Again the kiss deepened and grew more demanding by the minute. John knew he had to do something now or all of his good intentions would go down the pan the very same moment...

Reluctantly he broke away from Sherlock.

At John's retreat Sherlock gave a brief sound of protest.

"Well, how do you like it?" John asked, gasping for breath.

Sherlock sighed. "Apply my methods."

"You're breathing hard. Your pulse is elevated. You're in a clear state of arousal. I think that your pupils are dilated, but unlike me, you're probably not blushing."

"Excellent, John," Sherlock replied and stole another, devoted kiss.

John groaned and pushed the detective gently back with one hand. "Slowly, remember?" he said with difficulty.

"Selective memory," Sherlock pouted.

John laughed softly. "Come on, Casanova. One step at a time. Dinner?"

"Starving!" Sherlock replied with a smile, thinking probably more likely about what he'd like to have for dessert than about the main course.

After dinner they made themselves comfortable on the sofa and both enjoyed their new togetherness. Sherlock, who was lying with his head in John's lap while trying meticulously to not put weight onto the injured leg, had apparently been working on an article about his experiment with the toenails in recent days, which he wished to publish in a journal and was proofreading. John had been careful not to ask about the details and was simply grateful that the detective had continued the experiment in the last few nights in St. Bart's laboratory and not on their kitchen table.

Although John loved their physical closeness, he knew that there were many evenings to come when the detective would be immersed in thoughts and not paying attention to him. John didn't believe that would change just because they were now officially a couple. Sherlock wasn't romantic, and he did not expect that they would walk now constantly holding hands through the streets of London, only because they had practiced the public display of emotions under the pretense of the case several times. Now, they didn't have to fool anyone anymore, and certainly not themselves. Therefore he was glad that Sherlock, who usually appreciated when his personal distance zone was respected, seemed to be not averse to cuddling principally as he was proving just now.

While playing absentmindedly with the dark curls of his friend, he looked raptly at the ring on his finger.

"Why don't you take it off and have a look at the inscription if you are so keenly interested?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at him surprised. "How ..." he began, but then thinking better of it. Instead, he gently took the ring from his finger and held it before his eyes, so that he could read the inscription.

In view of what he read, John looked at Sherlock quizzically. "I thought you don't care about…?"

"Quite the contrary. It has long been one of my axioms," Sherlock replied with a wink.

John smiled sweetly, for the inscription showed him just how much the detective adored him, their life together and the simple things they shared.

_The little things are infinitely the most important._


End file.
